


Paths

by WackyGoofball



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Police, Eventual Romance, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, I make no promises, Jaime as the team leader, Military Training, Slow Burn, Special Forces, characterizations of minor characters might be slightly off, features other characters from both book and show, let's see where that goes..., of sorts, so you are warned, sort of, still in the early developing stages, still trying to overcome the writer's block of writer's blocks
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-03-04
Updated: 2017-11-01
Packaged: 2018-05-24 16:23:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 87,228
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6159520
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WackyGoofball/pseuds/WackyGoofball
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Brienne trains to become an integral member of one of the elite Special Forces teams in King's Landing. </p><p>If there wasn't the cocky trainer/ team leader Jaime Lannister, the so-called Kingslayer. A man she knows little to nothing about, a mystery, a man without honor, who smiles way too often no matter in what situation... and who is way too good-looking.</p><p>... And the rest of the team.</p><p>But Brienne is steadfast in her wish to prove herself to them, to everyone, but will she manage?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Tunnel View

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ikkiM](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ikkiM/gifts).



> I gift this to ikkiM because she deserves it, and may perhaps be in need of a bit of cheering up. ♥
> 
> Hello everyone else! Thanks for looking into this story! 
> 
> So... I make another attempt to start on a Mod!AU... In the hope that this will somehow bring me forward in the other Mod!AUs I still have out there, but can't continue because of the writer's block being way too blocking (apologies for that, by the way). 
> 
> Anywho, as already mentioned in the tags, I don't know where exactly I'm heading with this, so it's a bit of an experiment on my behalf, but I wanted to start posting anyway. 
> 
> It's sort of inspired by the dynamic between Jordan O'Neil and John James Urgayle in G.I. Jane, but, ugh... with way better hope of eventual romance (I say chance here... because else it'd be a spoiler, LOL). But it's not supposed to be military Special Forces, but police Special Forces instead. 
> 
> I take the liberty to depict the Special Forces according to my wishes. It's not supposed to be an authentic representation of that job, though I try my best ot keep up the vibe of it. 
> 
> Did I forget something...? Right, I'm still no native, still write that on my own, and hence own all mistakes made. 
> 
> I hope you'll enjoy this anyway. :)

Brienne of Tarth was and won’t ever be a woman living under illusions by any means. She got that shoved into her head when still very young.

Illusions and dreams of a better world are for the pretty girls.

Brienne understood very early on in her life that no one would ever grant her anything or care for her for the sake of her charming personality or beauty – for she lacks both these things.

So when she went to police academy and later on to the police department, Brienne was by no means under the impression that anyone would clap his or her hands over the matter, for her, being one of the few women there (in fact the only one who completed the training in her year, the rest dropped out eventually). She didn’t expect people to be impressed with her courage. She didn’t expect special treatment.

She prepared for scorn.

The way she always does.

What she _didn’t_ expect was what she now finds herself in, after her mentor Goodwin recommended her to become a member of a Special Forces team of King’s Landing's department. He was one of the very few people who’s ever taken notice of her potential and skill, her worth - and encouraged her to keep going. So Brienne trusted his judgment that this would be the change she needed, to finally find the appreciation Brienne sought much more desperately than she’d ever admit out loud.

And for the briefest of moments, Brienne had dared to believe that maybe this would be her hour, her moment.

To finally become part of, _yes_ , a team, a team focused on the job, not gossip and whatever else she witnessed during her time at the academy and department alike. She dared to believe that this would be the change she needed, away from school-like drama and chicanery. That the scorn would be no longer as visible in the face of the high-risk tasks of being a member of the Special Forces, an elite group among the entire Westerosi departments, to be exact.

But that bubble burst once she came face-to-face with the team… and the team leader.

“Is that a _woman_?!”

Those were the first words she ever got from her team leader, Jaime Lannister.

And that is how it carried on, to this day.

“Wench, no time for day dreaming. For that you are not pretty enough. Give me twenty more push-ups before I change my mind, Tarth!” Lannister’s voice rings in her ears, bringing Brienne back to the present situation of doing push-ups in the hot summer air. The training camp is outside King’s Landing, a secluded mansion up on a small hill, perhaps the hottest place during the summer, and the coldest during winter.

“A place of extreme”, as the team leader had pointed out to them the first time they had arrived there, with duffel bags over their shoulders, glancing around like school children on a school trip all the same. “To prepare you for the normal madness that comes with the job.”

Brienne blows air through her nostrils after pushing up again. Lannister made them all do push-ups after Ronnet Connington had the _splendid_ idea to play stupid during a simulation, going on his own instead of waiting for the others to have his back, which resulted in the simulation ending with all of their ‘demise’.

Demise meaning a round of _pink_ paint balls for either one.

“To remind you of the princesses you want to be – but aren’t.”

And since the team always does things “together”, or at least is forced to face punishment together, all now find themselves pushing up and down and up and down and up again because Connington is as much of an idiot as he always was…

Only the Seven know how much Brienne hates Connington, Red Ronnet as his _friends_ call him.

Brienne calls him Connington.

She is glad that Lannister didn’t catch on to their story yet, or else she wouldn’t ever see the end of it. The leader takes his dear pleasure in humiliating her, just like the rest likes to disgrace her.

So much to her foolish thoughts of finally finding a spot where this is no matter, but Brienne is used to gossip and peer pressure.

She isn't as used to who is supposed to be her mentor to treat her like shit as well, though.

Jaime Lannister is everything Goodwin wasn't - and Goodwin was and is all that Jaime Lannister won't ever be.

Lannister calls her “wench” regularly. He makes her do extra-push-ups, run extra-laps. He shoves her around, verbally and mentally. He mocks her. He insults her in front of them, so they can snigger at her - and that almost every day. It was grueling from day one on, a constant pain throbbing within her that he and the other poked and still poke their fingers at, like getting a tooth pulled out – but slowly. It’s been like this for felt eternities.

Perhaps the worst is that Lannister keeps asking her if she doesn’t have enough at last and wants to quit, run back to her mommy or daddy and get out her knitting needles instead.

Or no, the worst is the cocksure, self-complacent grin on his lips when he manages to humiliate her yet again.

But Brienne simply grinds her teeth every time and goes on anyway, no matter how many times he says that she is a foolish, stubborn mule. Brienne never gave up on things she set her mind on, and even the way too good-looking team leader with smug grin and an ego impossible to fit in a single room won’t beat that out of her.

No one knocks her into the dust without her getting back up.

No way.

 _No_ way.

“Alright, you slouches. Five minutes before we go on with the shooting practice!” the team leader yells and there is only the sound of bodies hitting the sand and heavy breathing.

Jaime Lannister looks on as the recruits collapse into heaps of sweaty flesh… except for…

“Tarth! Are you trying to show off again? You don’t get good-student-stickers for being pigheaded-stubborn. How many times do I have to tell you that before you get it into your thick skull?” he barks as he sees the giant woman continuing with her push-ups. Jaime steps over to her and bends down beside her, pulling his sunglasses down slightly. He already means to make the next comment when he hears her mumble through gritted teeth, “Sixteen, seventeen, eighteen, nineteen, twenty.”

And at last, she collapses to the ground as well.

He shakes his head.

“I’ve never had a recruit who doesn’t get the rule that once the leader says that you can stop… you just stop. For all the good it does you. _Two_ more minutes before shooting practice. Don’t blame me if you’ll be a shaking mess and miss all the targets,” he says before straightening back up and speaking up to the rest in a loud voice. “So, what do we learn from this, you little shits? Let me hear it!”

“Red Ronnet is an asshole,” one of them, Hyle Hunt, grunts.

“That may be true, no, that _is_ definitely true, but that’s not what I’m asking for, c’mon, guys and… ‘ _lady_ ’, c’mon, let me hear it! What went wrong? What part did you screw up so majorly to earn yourself yet another shower in pink?” Jaime goes on.

“Connington went alone,” Loras Tyrell mutters, face still buried in the dust. "The asshole."

“Sometimes I’m glad that handing a gun doesn’t require that much brain… or else I would have to save the world all by myself,” Jaime rolls his eyes. “What did you do wrong? Where did you go wrong this time?”

“We didn’t stop him?” Robb Stark mutters.

“Is it really that hard? C’mon, use your heads!” Jaime argues. “Tick tock. Just one more minute left. And I fear that if I don't hear a good answer within the minute, I might expand the training to a few more extra laps!”

“We didn’t act as a team,” Brienne says at last.

“Ah, there we go! At least one of you guys, pardon, _ladies_ , knows the answer. So now, up you go and shoot! Go! Go! Go!” Jaime whirls his arm around to motion at the rest to get back up and over to the shooting range. There is mewling and moaning as the men halfway crawl their way there.

Brienne feels confidence rising within her once her fingers wrap around the metal of the sniper rifle. That is what she is good at. That is what no one can take from her. Goodwin always said to her that she had stamina – and apparently a very good aim, which made him confident that the Special Forces would be the right niche for her.

Her place to be.

Brienne leans against the cold metal as though it was her violin, sapphire blue eyes set on the small targets far away from them. This is the song she knows, the song she sings…

“Greyjoy! You don’t get paid for shooting other people’s targets! Get your shit together or you’ll be running laps until you faint like a woman, unlike _her_ here!” Jaime yells, pointing at Brienne, but she doesn’t even hear it. The world morphs into a dark tunnel when she shoots. Brienne shuts out all the rest for the one moment where she pulls the trigger.

“Tyrell, not the almost bad. Gladly, you are better in the shooting range than in the close combat department, or else you’d really be a worthless shit biting pillows. Keep it up!”

Brienne can hear his gallant steps approaching her.

“Ah, the over-achiever. At some point I guess I have to buy some of those stickers to stick to your forehead after all. Would you like that, wench?” he chuckles, before turning to the rest with his booming voice. “See that, guys? Every single time it is a hit!”

Brienne focuses on going on to shoot, but that is when she feels herself being yanked away from the rifle, strong hands holding on to her left shoulder and right arm as she is flipped around and tossed to the ground violently. Brienne lets out a small yelp of surprise only to see Lannister straddling her, pinning her to the ground, dust and stones biting into her back, “So you tell me, Tarth. What did you forget about?”

Brienne squirms beneath him. That just isn’t fair. Whenever she manages to impress with her skills, it’s for nothing the very next second. And now she is too exhausted to fight him off with physical strength. Lannister did that a few times by now, not by the shooting range, but he would just randomly charge her, and Brienne would usually, without a second of a thought, fight back, no matter if he is the commander or not.

But now, she is just exhausted, over with pink paintball marks, dust, bruises, and scratches… and humiliation.

It simply isn’t fair.

“I don’t know, sir,” Brienne says, blue eyes staring at his emerald ones, hidden behind his sunglasses, which slipped down a bit.

“You don’t know? Oh, that’s a pity. In a real-life situation, not knowing means _what_? Yes, _death_. When you are in a situation where it becomes necessary, you always have to be aware of the mistake you made, to maneuver out of the situation once it comes about for real,” Lannister says, putting more pressure on her body. “Always retrace your steps to where you went wrong, and then head the right direction again. Never walk the same wrong path twice. So where did you go wrong, wench?”

Brienne looks at him for a long moment as she hears the other men starting to howl probably at the fact that he looms above her as though they were doing something _other_ than fighting.

“I, I don't know, sir,” Brienne can only repeat. She doesn’t know what she did wrong, where she went wrong in his opinion. Brienne hit the targets, what she always did and what got her even a few small compliments from the team leader.

She did what was asked of her.

What's wrong about that?

“Now you tell me, do you shut out all the rest when you shoot? I bet so. You let it all wash over you. What I throw at you. That they snigger at you right at this moment. You shut it all out. Maybe you sing a funny song inside your head. You get a tunnel view, don’t you, Tarth?” he says, looming inches from her face. “And _that_ is your mistake. If you have a tunnel-view, you don’t know what’s happening to your left or right, and if there isn’t someone charging you from behind to kill you. A sniper rifle is no guarantee that you are safe."

“I didn’t know we were simulating that…,” she means to say, but he cuts her off, “Oh, _yes_ , because an aggressor will give you a fair warning, wench. Get yourself together. You could be _dead_ by now, and all that because your achy-achy heart can’t take a few japes. _That’s_ your fatal mistake, and it may cost you your life one day – and apparently that of every other member of the team. _That’s_ where you went wrong.”

Some of the others start to laugh, but that is when Jaime whips his head around to them, “I could have done the same thing to either one of you little shits! That’s a lesson you _all_ have to learn. Simulations are neat things, but you must never forget that they are _just_ simulations. In a real situation, the bad guys won’t stop short before you just because you have a sniper rifle aimed at someone else. If you forget that, it may cost you your ugly heads far sooner than later. Is that understood?”

They blink, the laughter dying out at once.

The Lannister Lion, as they once called him. It is during moments such as these that one can see how he earned himself that byname, one of two.

Jaime turns to Brienne, “So, Tarth, what do we do about you now? Hm?”

Lannister means to lean forward to her again, but then stops in the motion, blinking, before he starts to laugh out loud. The others turn their heads at him as he gets up from Brienne, “Oh, or are you _that_ happy to see me, wench?”

The others look at the two, visibly irritated.

“My, my, wench, I don’t know if it’s against policy to hold a sharp knife to the team leader’s crotch,” Jaime goes on.

“Simulations are neat things, but you must never forget that they are _just_ simulations,” Brienne mutters. Jaime just chuckles at her, looks at her dirty clothes over with fading pink, before he whips his head back around.

“Okay, that was enough for now. I’m fed up with all of your ugly faces! Get under the shower to wash up, _now_!” Jaime calls out. The men get up and leave, hoping that the team leader won’t have a change of mind and make them run more laps in the summer heat after all.

Brienne scrambles to her feet before she goes ahead to put the safety lock on the rifle.

“Tarth, will you _ever_ listen to my commands, I wonder?” Jaime huffs.

“We might get rain later the day. We shouldn’t let the weapons get wet,” Brienne argues.

"Rain?" he looks up to the sky. "It doesn't look like rain to me. It's one hell of a hot summer."

"I'm pretty sure, yes," Brienne replies.

She can tell if it is about to rain almost every time, already as a child she would sit by the window back on Tarth, and wait for the raindrops to paint patterns on the glass.

But Brienne won't tell the team leader about that, that's for sure.

"How?" he asks.

"I just am," she tells him, rolling her shoulders. "And weather forecast backs up my argument."

"Always listen to the hot weathergirl, way to go," Lannister wrinkles his nose, rather amused, but then goes ahead to gather the other rifles alongside Brienne.

To her it's always odd to talk to him once it's not in the training situation.

Well, to tell the truth, Brienne just is uncertain to talk to him in any setting, training or not, but once the training is over, he doesn't seem as threatening anymore, and that means Brienne fears that she cannot put up all of her defenses.

In fact, she feels better guarded when he yells at her. Then she can pull her walls high and be done with it, but in more private or relaxed conversations, she feels ever the more tense.

Brienne sighs to herself.

She really should have just gone ahead and leave the weapons there.

What does she care if they get wet? The department has to pay for them.

Stupid thing, as her Septa always told her.

Some things just never seem to change.

“So? Still not fed up with all of this shit, Tarth?” he asks as he shoulders one of the rifles, bringing Brienne back to the present situation of gathering the weapons - alone, with Jaime Lannister. 

“No, sir,” she replies, pursing her lips.

“So no crying for mommy to get you home, huh?” Lannister goes on.

“I find it unlikely that she’d hear me even if I cried for her,” Brienne snorts, keeping her eyes on the rifles, suppressing any urge to just flip it around to shock him, to make him quit.

Because she feels defenseless now - and she hates that.

“Ah, yeah, dead mommy complex," Lannister says with a sly smile. I know that song myself."

Brienne tilts her head, not knowing what to make of that statement. In general, she doesn’t know what to make of that man most of the time.

 _All_ the time.

Most of the time, she wants him to drop dead, but then again… not exactly… because she admires his strength and his skills, no matter how much of an ass he is thus.

She knows his records – which are _impressive_ to say the least. 

She sees him running the laps with them more than once, instead of just sitting around and enjoying the sunlight. 

She felt and saw him tackling down all of the others with an ease that still catches her off-guard.

And his aim is almost always perfect. 

So while she hates him, she appreciates him, if only for his skills - because Brienne rather wants to judge people for what they can instead of what they look like.

Even if in his case, that proves to be extremely difficult.

They walk over to the shack where they have the weapon storage to put the rifles safely away.

“You _really_ have to work on that tunnel-view you seem to have developed, Tarth. I meant it in earnest. It can be very dangerous,” Jaime tells her as he bends down to unlock shelf, his voice far softer now.

And if Brienne didn’t know better, she’d say it even sounds a bit apologetic.

But he never apologizes, so she is definitely just hearing things.

“Well, maybe if you stopped insulting me, I would stop trying to shut you out,” she snorts. “ _Sir_.”

“That may be, but you have to think about it like this: Do you think _those_ guys will ever stop? Do you think someone will stop who means you harm? In the end, we are all just animals, sniffing other people’s blood, other people’s weakness, and tackle that spot until we get a pound of flesh. Mercy is no natural trait to animals, you see?” he says, facing away from her.

“But empathy is,” Brienne says in a small voice.

“Oh, yes, this thing I hoped to finally have killed,” he huffs. “But you should know by now that people can shut that part out very well. Look at me.”

She knows there is a smile on his lips as he says it, but the sort of empty smile that gives her shivers.

“… And in any case, if you are looking for comfort, you are at the wrong address with me. I don’t care for how this may affect your feelings. I am here to train you, make you a Special Forces team, then lead this team... and hope I did the job outright so that you don’t end up killing me on the very first mission. Petting your straw-head or bulky shoulders is not part of the deal,” he goes on.

 _That_ was to be expected.

One moment he appears almost human, and then he just isn’t anymore.

“You single me out,” Brienne finds herself say before she can even think.

She knows that the training is hard, demanding, unforgiving, and all get their share of accusations and extra-tasks, but Lannister takes his dear pleasure again and again to single her out, to call all attention to her. Brienne doesn’t need that reminder. She knows she is an outsider, already due to the fact that she is the only woman there.

“If you are unhappy with my way of training you, submit your letter of complaint to the comment box, the one with the glitter and unicorns painted on it,” Jaime huffs. “If you are looking for friends here, or for someone who’ll be your good and _empathetic_ mentor, you chose the wrong department, Tarth. The top is a lonely place, never forget that.”

Brienne bites her lower lip. Obviously, she doesn’t consider Lannister her ‘mentor’. That is Goodwin, will always be Goodwin. While Brienne knows of the team leader’s skill, she also knows the story of the backstabber he is, that dark part in his report, blackened pages and many question marks.

About how he shot his own commander during a raid, which earned him the byname ‘Kingslayer’, since Aerys Targaryen was referred to as ‘King’ for all his magnificent undercover work he had done. But of course, all was covered up in the end. Jaime Lannister got no more than a short detention, only to be put back into a commanding position soon after the King had died and Robert Baratheon took his place. While he didn't return to his team as the leader and instead focused on training the new teams instead, sanctions never followed for what he did to the King. Brienne heard the stories about his father Tywin Lannister, one of the most influential sponsors of the department and a big gun in King's Landing's political sphere, paying _a lot_ of money to have that arranged.

Yet, of course, one can’t know for sure. Brienne never met this man, so she doesn’t dare to pass judgment.

She knows this cock-sure team leader however, and he certainly doesn’t feel sorry. Whenever Lannister hears that nickname, whenever that story is addressed, Jaime sports that self-conscious smile – and _means_ it.

Brienne can still remember a scene from her initial time and how Lannister remarked that he expected integrity from all of his men “and ‘ _woman’_ , if you will”, that they were to “have each other’s backs”. But then he laughed out loud and went on that he hoped they won’t have his back _stabbed_. That he had that before and couldn’t really recommend it.

How would a man with so little integrity, so little honor be her role model?

Brienne gives a lot on honor. And shooting your team leader, no matter how much he drives you insane, is not acceptable, unforgivable.

There is a difference between wanting him dead – and actually killing him.

And far worse, to even joke about the matter as though it was nothing.

But that’s what it seemingly is for Lannister - it’s nothing to him.

As it appears, he doesn’t care about anything but himself.

And that man is supposed to teach them teamwork...

“I don’t need friends,” Brienne says at last. “I would just like to have some respect.”

“Respect is earned,” Lannister argues.

“Most of the others have respect for each other, but they don’t have it for me, no matter what I do, but _this_ isn't exactly helping it,” Brienne replies, at some point not knowing why she tells Lannister of all people. She knows he doesn’t care. She knows this will only make her climb lower in his opinion of her.

Maybe she has a mild sunstroke after all?

“That is because they have cocks and you have a cunt, well, _presumably_ you do,” Jaime shrugs. “Men are that stupid, Tarth, face it. Don’t expect miracles to happen, because they don’t. The world changes way too slowly for the world to be born where you’d be respected by all of your fellows. In the end, men still think with their cocks first.”

He straightens back up to rake his fingers through his golden hair, “So? Are we quitting yet?”

“No, sir,” Brienne says, hugging her arms.

“Pigheaded-stubborn, as I said,” Jaime sighs as he walks past her. “And now you are going to join the others, get washed up and get some rest. I know that you like to _not_ listen to my commands, but we’ll have another session later the day. And I can’t say I enjoy finding myself listening to your lamenting, bleating like a bloody sheep.”

“Yes, sir,” Brienne replies, walking after him. Once both are outside, Jaime closes the shack’s door. He walks away from her, but then calls over his shoulder, “Good job by the shooting range, Tarth. The knife really got me by surprise.”

And with that he is just gone.

Brienne stands still for a moment, blinking, but then shakes her head to make her way over to the bathrooms.

Because that man _never_ means what he says.

Because his words mean nothing to him.

Because his words mean nothing.


	2. Scrapes

Brienne makes her way over to the conference room.

Lannister ordered them there for today’s briefing. She is a bit early, _as always_ , so it’s no surprise to her that she is the first one to arrive. Brienne _is_ surprised that Jaime is already there, though, busy on the phone. Brienne decides not to enter to give him privacy, but she can still hear his voice through the wall.

“… Yeah, well, I find it odd that you call _now_ of all times. Since you didn’t call me for the past five months. Some people would be inclined to say that this is quite a long time… yeah, I _know_. I have been there. I got the wedding invitation. I got you two the fancy silver cutlery as a wedding gift… I don’t care, no. I have to focus on this here now… _No_ , I told you that I would have, but you didn’t want me to… As if we ever gave anything on what others thought of us… We could have… oh, _whatever_ … Are you finished yet…? _You_ were the one to call... If that is all you have to say to me, then you should better not call again. I won’t give myself this crap… No, because I did, because I always will… You can’t just demand that from me, _no_. I will stay in the Special Forces for as long as I am granted to. You and Father can eat your hearts out over the matter, but that’s decided, _no_! That is not up to discussion, just leave it alone! So if you don’t have anything else to say, I will hang up now… No, I won’t! Stop! Bye! _Bye_!”

Jaime almost wants to throw the cell phone to the ground, but then thinks better of it and stuffs it back into his pocket, his nostrils flaring. Brienne silently counts to ten before walking inside, her face a complete blank. Lannister whips his head around to her, seemingly caught off-guard by her sudden appearance.

And that surely means something.

That man normally hears a cricket moving on the other side of the house.

“Tarth, early as always,” he grimaces, but his voice lacks the edge of sarcasm. “Did you listen in on my conversation?”

“I heard what you said, but I didn’t listen in, sir,” Brienne replies. “I value privacy a lot.”

“Do you?” he snorts, glancing out the window.

“There’s job and there’s personal life. I try my best not to mix these two up,” Brienne replies with a grimace, uncertain what to make of his sudden change in attitude.

That man just makes her uncertain.

Why can’t he just act the same at all times? Then she would have a chance to adjust accordingly.

Why is that man so unstructured?

So much chaos?

“Ah, the same ideals I had in my earlier years. Trust me, in the end you won’t be able to keep them apart anymore,” he tells her. "No one manages."

Brienne looks at him, licking her lips.

“What? Did I render you speechless?” he huffs.

“I just don’t have anything to say,” Brienne replies.

“Well, let me give you that bit of advice, then: Even if it will most likely all end up as an odd mix of private and job, you should definitely try for as long as you can. Once it’s mixed, it always ends up black and you can mix in whatever color you want, you still get black, or muddy gray at best,” Jaime tells her.

“I will… keep that in mind… I guess,” Brienne replies slowly, not knowing what to make of this, of him.

“You better should. Let me tell you so from experience, it does you no good,” Jaime huffs. “But then again… it’s rather likely that you won’t manage. I didn’t… but then again, maybe you’ll surprise me, huh? Who knows? As thick as a castle wall as you are - you might surprise us all?”

Brienne opens her mouth to say something else in reply, but that is when the other swarm in one by one. She purses her thick lips before settling down on her chair.

“Ah, you’ll love the program I have designed for you. My estimation is that at least fifty percent of you will throw up their guts from exhaustion once I’m halfway through with you. And I know you’ll love me for it,” Jaime begins, flashing his white teeth at the team. The men moan loudly.

“Music in my ears.”

* * *

 

As it turned out, his prediction wasn’t entirely accurate. Only Hunt and Greyjoy threw up halfway through the session, and Stark planted his face in the dust at least thrice.

At some point Brienne can’t even remember what separate tasks they did. By now, it just feels like a lump of shooting practice, running, parkour, simulation after simulation, running, more running, shooting practice, and now… close combat in all of its varieties.

Brienne reckons that Jaime deserves some credit for managing to make the day seem seven hours longer.

At present, they are teamed up in pairs and fight each other with fists and blunt plastic knives, to practice dodging and disarming someone holding an actual one. 

Though that is one of those tasks Brienne actually appreciates – she is good at close combat, already due to the fact that she has the height and mass to put up even with a man like Hunt.

That she got Connington instead actually suits her _more_ than fine.

“I suppose I have to apologize for forgetting the flowers this time around again,” he smirks at her as they walk in an imaginary circle, waiting for a chance to strike. “Red roses, right?”

Brienne simply ignores him.

The way she always did - and will continue to.

He just wants to provoke her to anger, but he is not worth the anger, or her tears, long since dried.

She hears him, but she doesn’t listen.

“I won’t walk the wrong path a second time,” she mutters to herself.

No tunnel view.

No tunnel, just a whoosing sound which is supposed to be his voice.

“Sometimes I still think about it, what could have been…”

Brienne keeps her eyes focused on him, on his movements, his steps.

She searches for new paths.

Brienne changes direction at once, forcing him to move the opposite way as well.

“Did you keep it, I wonder, I…”

But that is when the air is knocked out of him as Brienne jumps him unexpectedly, buries her knee in his chest, her left hand on his armored wrist, the other to the throat.

“You meant to say?” she snarls through gritted teeth, sweat-soaked strands of hair falling into her eyes. 

“Get off of me, you big cow. I can’t breathe,” he rasps.

Pathetic.

 _As always_.

Brienne grits her teeth, takes the knife from him as she gets up.

“Good job there, Tarth,” she can hear Jaime call out, standing only a few feet away from them as he observes all the others still fighting. Brienne nods curtly, and turns around to go back in position, but then hears the creak of stones pushing over sandy ground. Brienne allows her body to fall backwards blindly, solidly burying her right elbow in Connington’s back as he tried to charge her from behind and below to tackle her and probably knock her off her feet. 

He lets out a shriek as he connects with the ground again, only to be caught in a choke by her. The others already stopped by now, howling as they watch on as Connington gets payback from Brienne.

“Let go! Let go already, you giant bitch!”

Brienne releases him at once. Ronnet falls forward, only cushioned by his forearms, while she falls on her back and left elbow, breathing hard.

“What was that for, you dumb…,” he means to go on ranting, but that is when Jaime slams his boot right in front of the man’s face, “Do we have a problem here?”

“She’s choked me.”

“After _you_ charged me from behind – even though I already disarmed you!”

“No one’s asked you, Tarth,” Lannister snaps. Brienne’s eyes widen. She thought he’d be on her side this time, but _of course_ … she was mistaken.

He’ll never be on her side.

No one is.

Jaime turns his attention back to Connington, bending down beside him, “So now, let me hear it again. Are you, in all sincerity, complaining to your team leader that your comrade beat you fair and square a second time after you decided to pull a dick move like that? Are you seriously trying to cry to your team leader that this _woman_ beat you? Did I get that right, Gingerbread?”

“Fair and square my ass! She didn’t have to _choke_ me! And who’s said that we couldn’t keep charging? You yourself said that simulations may be neat things, but that an enemy would strike in any way possible,” Connington insists, and Brienne would love to jump him again.

Just like she would love to run.

Or shout.

Or scream.

There are so many things she would want to do at this very second, but she can’t.

So she just keeps staring.

“And who’s given _you_ the authority to teach _my_ students a lesson?” Jaime demands in a low hiss, gritting his white teeth at Connington, looking like a lion indeed. “If I choose to remind you little shits of the essentials, then I do that because I mean to teach you something. Because that is my job. I’ve worked my ass off to be in that position. You stand at very the beginning, so you tell me again – how was it within your authority to do my job, and believe that it’s alright to teach her a lesson at this moment?”

“She did the same!”

“She fought back, you scumbag. And _won_ , by the way, though that’s no huge success, because you have about zero talent in that field, or merely the muscles to match. She let go, every damn time, while you wanted to pull a dick move. And now let me tell you something: If I catch you just one more time doing something like that without my consent, I will let you line up in the shooting range among the targets – and the entire team gets to shoot as many paintballs at you as it takes to cover you in pink from head to toe. I am the boss here. You are not. You do what I say, when I say it. Other than that, you are to stick to my rules. _My_ rules. Did we understand each other?”

“But I…," Connington means to say, but Jaime takes him by the collar more violently, “Did we understand each other?”

“Yes.”

“Yes _what_?”

“Yes, _sir_.”

“Now get out of my sight and start running,” Jaime says, straightening back up.

“How many laps, sir?”

“Until I tell you to stop,” the team leader snaps. Ronnet is to his feet at once and starts running.

“And if I see you slowing down, I will remind you with the paintball gun! Pink suits you just too well!” Jaime yells after him, before turning his head to Brienne, who still lies on the ground, propped up on her forearms. “Tarth, with me.”

“Sir, I…,” she means to say, but he is quick enough to interrupt her. “You scraped up your elbow when you landed. That needs cleaning. So hop. Or do you need me to pick you up bridal style, wench?”

Brienne almost jumps to her feet, only now realizing the throbbing on her elbow, which is indeed a mess of bloody scratches and scrapes.

“The rest, team up with someone new and start over,” he says before turning to Robb Stark. “Little Wolf – you’ll make sure that Gingerbread keeps running.”

“Yes, sir,” the young man replies. Jaime nods before grabbing Brienne by the upper arm, surprisingly gently, though, and leads her away from the rest. He guides her to the small infirmary at the very end of the narrow hallway from the South side of the house, a bit shabby, but well-equipped. He pushes her down on a stool before he goes ahead to grab the items needed to clean up the wound.

“You can count yourself lucky that I had a practical training as a paramedic in my youth times,” he snorts. “Or else I’d have to call in someone to drive here, or Gods forbid, let one of the others handle it. They are clumsy enough on their own.”

Brienne licks her lips, but no words come out. She just keeps sitting on the stool, suddenly feeling uncomfortable.

The second time that he seems so changed.

Just what is it with this man?

Jaime turns back around, approaching with a few containers, swabs, and bandages, swiftly pulling another stool under him with his foot.

“So now, arm to me,” he orders, but in the same motion already takes her wrist to pull her slightly forward, and twist the arm so that he can take a look at the injury.

“You don’t have to…,” she mutters numbly. “To clean that. I can do that myself.”

“I’m required to,” he chuckles softly. “If it had been the little shit Ronnet, I would have to treat him, too. Nothing special here, wench.”

“I mean that you don’t have to do it. I can do that myself - and overlook the training instead,” she says, now with a bith more confidence. Jaime brings down the moistened swab on her arm, making Brienne flinch in surprise. “Yeah, I can already see you trying to do that in front of a mirror, being totally frustrated with yourself, and taking like forever. Like that, I can be sure that you don’t miss out on much of today’s training. I still want to see you hurl. I have a quota to fulfill after all.”

There is a long moment of silence as Jaime goes on cleaning the scrapes. Brienne, now that she knows the swab to come, doesn’t flinch anymore, just looks at a spot on the wall so that she doesn’t have to look at him.

Why does he have to be so good-looking again?

And why does her mind have to think about that in the first place?

That man is pure frustration.

“… I see that you finally took one of my orders to heart,” he says, looking at her for a moment. Brienne blinks at him, “I always take them to heart.”

“Says to me the one woman to always do the opposite of what I say,” he snorts.

“I still take them to heart,” she argues, her voice suddenly way too small to her own liking. Jaime wrinkles his nose once before grabbing more antiseptic.

“Then you are one among very few,” he says after a moment. “Or is it really that you are still inside your head because you listened in on my phone conversation this morning?”

“I didn’t listen in, sir. I just heard something, I don’t know what you said, sir,” Brienne insists hurriedly.

“If that is so, I didn’t train you well,” Jaime argues. “You are always supposed to take in your surroundings. So you tell me again, did I train you that poorly?”

“No, sir,” Brienne says, bowing her head slightly. “I just meant to say that I… I don't think anything of it. I just… I just heard it, that’s all.”

Just like she heard the rumors.

Though Brienne doesn’t like to listen to gossip – she’s had enough of that herself – but… well, at some point you can’t escape it when the entire department talks about it.

Just like they keep talking about him as the Kingslayer.

That man has way too many secrets - or rather, way too many smiles to cover them up.

“You are a terrible liar, just so that you know for future reference,” he chuckles, before he turns her arm back around and starts to twist it a bit.

“What are you doing?” she frowns as he grabs her by the upper arm as well, suddenly very uncomfortable.

His touches are way too gentle.

 _Way_ too gentle.

“Making sure you didn’t sprain anything,” he replies. “Do you feel any pain?”

“No, sir,” Brienne replies, her lips barely moving apart.

“Good, seems like it’s really just that bloody mess you managed to make of yourself,” he says with the smallest of smiles before he lets go of her wrist to grab the bandage. Brienne is too busy to notice, though, since she is staring at the arm still holding her upper arm.

Why is this suddenly so uncomfortable?

Maybe because he talks softly.

He never talks softly with her.

Oh, curse this weather.

“The next time one of them attacks you like that, make sure you guard your left elbow,” he says as he starts to wrap the bandage around her arm. “Pull it to your body or so. It's better to let the body cushion the fall instead of a single limb.”

“It’s just a scrape,” Brienne argues. “What does it matter?”

“It might easily have been a sprain if not a break if there had been rock or pavement underneath you, or if you had landed just the wrong way. _That’s_ why it matters. You have to look after yourself as well as your team mates. If you can’t move your arm properly, you can’t shoot properly, if you can’t shoot properly, you can’t do your job properly,” he tells her.

“I’ve had my arm broken in training and still didn’t miss a single target,” Brienne insists truthfully.

“Ugh, there we go again. If you dare take out a gun next to prove it to me, I will have you removed from the camp, so that you know, wench,” he warns her. “Look, all I’m saying is that you have to be careful about yourself. You serve the team better alive and healthy than broken if not dead. Those injuries are the kinds of things you cannot calculate. In a team, that’s dangerous. So if your team mates don’t look out for you, you have to do that for your own sake already.”

“Great teamwork,” she can’t help but say.

“Well, some things changed in the department, or rather in people’s heads. They think bigger guns make some kind of difference. I wouldn’t have put the team together like that, trust me in this," he shakes his head. 

“Why?” she blinks at him, tilting her head to the side.

“Have you seen their records?” Jaime huffs. “They are all the little big starlets of their teams or departments.”

“Well, it’s an elite group. There should be only just the… best,” Brienne makes a face.

While she doesn't consider herself the best, she knows that the others all have a lot of potential, even Connington excels in some fields.

“That’s what they rammed down your throats,” he argues. Brienne frowns at him.

Shouldn’t you seek the best – if you want to create something better?

“Those guys may be good in their particular fields of expertise, or in some cases, happen to be allrounders, but they have shit for team spirit and would sell each other out for less than a groat if it came to it. I’d have better chances to have a trustful team with a horde of rabid dogs than with this bunch, I'm sure,” he shakes his head.

Jaime looks out the window where one can see the rest of the team still training.

“You see, we either got those who are just here because they are looking for the thrill, or happen to have the skill to match, or the ones who are chasing their fathers’ legacies. Or the ones who think it’ll be their ladder to the top, a few years in the elite group, and you can be certain of a position at the top part of the food chain. Well, and then we have the ones who want to prove themselves, more or less desperately. We got a few of those,” Jaime goes on, his voice trailing off.

Brienne snorts to herself.

Three guesses whom he means with the last one…

“The last one is the least dangerous type, and in fact the one I see most hope for. That’s the type that has ambition without being completely corrupted by it, but the problem is… you are all so egocentric that it hurts my brain. For you, it’s still about getting your heads patted for getting something right at last, for not dying in a simulation, or managing to overpower someone you know the fighting style of since you sparred with him for weeks, which won't be the case in the field. You are anything but a team. And I don’t know if you’ll ever grow to be one,” he exhales before turning back around to her. “Though I suppose I can’t even blame you for it. That’s what they tell you to do to get yourself a spot here - to think about no one but yourself, your career. They surely tell you all the same thing about being a fighter. Vicious cycles are sons of bitches.”

“But wasn’t it always like that?” Brienne can’t help but ask.

“No, not even close. Back in my days, it wasn’t all about how fancy your résumé looked like and how many people wrote you a recommendation. We _recruited_. We looked out for who’d fit together. We watched, we observed. We talked with them, about them. It was a process. You know, sometimes it’s better to have an average man in who’ll get the job done and serve as a mediator in the group, instead of the top sniper who’s just full of himself and thinks that his long hair glows enough in the sun to bedazzle his opponents. That’s the way _we_ used to do it, that’s the way it used to be like entirely. And that’s how it worked best, in my opinion,” he replies. “Not that anyone gives a bat’s shit on the Kingslayer’s opinion, of course.”

He pauses a moment before he goes on, his face blank, unreadable for Brienne.

Because she couldn’t read that man even if his face isn’t a blank.

He is a mystery.

“But… well, new politics, new bosses, new orders. These days, we, or rather _I_ am simply presented with a bunch of guys I am supposed to make a team out of. And tell you what, I never had as much of a mismatched bunch as this one,” Jaime exhales wearily.

Brienne tries hard to keep herself from frowning.

Jaime rarely talks to her like that, or for more than a few sentences.

It might well be that this is the first ever conversation they had.

“How many teams did you have before starting to train this one?” Brienne asks, but then bites her lower lip. “I… I mean, sorry, I shouldn’t have asked.”

“Why? It’s what you can probably find in my files with ease. I had three on my own. And I helped train seventeen when I was still _serving the King_. Back then we didn’t keep the groups, however. We had our standard squad and simply did the basic training for those, well, the advanced version of basic. We made them all hurl. It was splendid,” he chuckles.

“Why didn’t you stay with one of the three since… well…,” she asks, her voice trailing off.

“It just wasn’t meant to be,” he shrugs. “Well, to tell the truth, I wasn’t supposed to, and I didn't really care either. I was still getting watched if I got the job done. You know how it is, once a Kingslayer, always a Kingslayer. Or well, you don’t know because you aren’t, but… maybe you can imagine.”

“I thought you were fully restored to your status,” Brienne blinks.

“Is that what it says in the reports or the papers? Well, it makes sense, I suppose. I was put back into a position matching my status, that is true. That doesn't mean I had their trust again, though. Well, upon reflection, I never really did and won’t ever have it. I suppose you never had that because you were most certainly the teacher’s darling in school, but as a former troublemaker myself, I was always on probation in school - and the same carried on after that whole mess that earned me my fancy byname. The teacher just keeps looking at you. Some things just never changed. At some point we are just all still in school,” he exhales.

“So they wouldn’t let you keep the teams even if you had wanted to,” Brienne says.

No question, a statement.

That surely didn't stand in the reports.

And that was none of the rumors that drifted around the departments as far as Brienne knows.

But that is the thing with gossip, she knows, something is always lost.

Unreliable sources is what you call it.

“I didn’t want them either. They sent little shits with zero talent my way, likely expecting me to drop out, out of frustration. Well, they didn’t think I’d be as stubborn as I am… I suppose they should have known, but now I take my dear pleasure in it indeed,” he grins. 

That empty smile again.

“Will you keep _this_ team?” Brienne asks hesitantly.

“What? Did you get your hopes high that you’d get another team leader, Tarth? Now, that hurts my feelings,” Jaime snorts, amused.

“I wasn’t asking that. I just wanted to know…,” Brienne argues.

It never dawned on her that he would give up that team, simple as that.

“Well, they no longer put that particular leash on me. That means it’s up to me if I want it now. And, frankly speaking, I haven’t decided yet. Up to that point, there is little about this bunch that impresses me. Though again, it’s no wonder – because they didn’t let me recruit them the way it ought to be done to be… good, or anything close to promising… You didn’t stand a chance… Neither one of us did...”

Jaime's eyes drift off along with his voice, but then he gathers himself, shakes his head, and knots the bandage, “That should hold.”

Brienne jerks her arm away awkwardly, testing the bandage. He wrinkles his nose once, but then turns around on the stool to get rid of the bloody swabs and gauze.

“Thank you.”

“It's nothing. As I said, next time I expect you not to get such a scrape again. You shouldn’t try to make yourself any uglier than necessary,” he huffs, not looking at her.

Brienne doesn’t hear the insult, though, her mind still drifting over the information she just received.

For some reason, she had believed that he would keep that team.

And that was what filled her with anxiety – fearing that this chicanery would thus go on forever.

But now… it just leaves a hollow feeling in her stomach.

“So, ready to head back?” he asks. Brienne whips her head around to him, in the same motion scrambling to her feet. “Yes, sir.”

“Good. I still want to see you beat up Curly Hair for me. That boy needs to learn a lesson,” Jaime says with the sly kind of smile she knows from him.

Brienne shakes her head as she walks back outside, three steps behind him, calling his words to her mind.

She won’t make the mistake to walk down the same path twice.

So she should better control that hollow feeling in her stomach.

And focus on the path ahead.


	3. The Dragonpit

Brienne’s ears are still hearing nothing but a whooshing sound.

The sound of her own blood in her ears.

The song of guns, as Goodwin used to call it.

The song of triumph.

It was their first mission.

A small mission, to be sure, but still. They made a raid on a small drug ring in King’s Landing. They had gotten a tip from an insider.

At first Brienne honestly feared that it would all go down the drain. When they started to circle the building, Greyjoy was _that_ close to giving away that they were there, because he had stumbled, but Stark had steadied him just in time.

Inside, it had been a bit of a mess.

A _big_ mess in fact, but… no one was severely injured. Brienne managed to wrestle down and secure three of them, with Hunt’s assistance.

Tyrell and Greyjoy gave another two chase.

They got the drugs, and found a list of buyers and dealers they can now use to find the rest of that gang and customers.

It was anything but perfect, but they got the job done, no one was severely injured.

They got the bad guys.

That’s what counts.

“Good job, everyone.”

Brienne looks up as her mind clicks back into place to realize that Lannister just said that.

Right, for once they didn’t screw up.

Pink paintball stains didn’t turn into red bloodstains.

“You didn’t die this time. That is definitely a vast improvement.”

Brienne starts to peel herself out of her bulletproof vest.

“Listen up, everyone,” Jaime then says loudly. All turn their heads to him. “It is old tradition that, after the first successful mission in which the newbies didn’t end up getting killed or in hospital, the team leader has to buy the drinks for the night, in a club of his choice. So now, we’ll all ride back to the mansion, get changed, and then head out. And no exceptions. We all go, and we all drink.”

Brienne narrows her eyes at him because she knows that he is addressing her with the last bit, but chooses not to comment.

 _Let it wash over you_ , she reminds herself.

And so, the team soon finds itself in perhaps one of the fanciest dance clubs in all of King’s Landing, the Dragonpit. An impressive showpiece of new architecture, which looks like a cavern almost, but once inside, it’s filled with flashing lights, booming music, bartenders with charming smiles, and waitresses with very short skirts, a massive dance floor, lounge areas, and a bar that has probably every drink ever mixed in Westeros – and Essos alike.

The men immediately start to spread out towards the bar, like children plundering the candy bar on a birthday party.

That was to be expected. Free drinks are free drinks.

Brienne shakes her head as she walks over to the small cloakroom on the left, but almost jumps once she turns around to have Lannister standing in front of her.

“Are you very shocked at the choice of location?” he chuckles smugly.

He surely knows that it makes her uncomfortable – what other sense would be there for him to go on teasing her like that?

She should have gone with the other guys to the bar, by the Seven.

“I expected anything up to a strip club or some other nightclub on the Silk Street. This is a vast improvement,” Brienne replies with the smallest of smiles.

Lannister lets out an amused snort, but then tilts his head at her, “I think this is the first time I have seen you in a fitted blouse… and high heels.”

She looks down at herself. She only took one “good” outfit with her to the training camp, a sleeveless, aubergine-colored tie-neck blouse that makes her not-existent cleavage appear not as empty as it is, and create a bit of a more feminine waistline where there isn’t either, and simple wide-cut black jeans with the only pair of heels she owns – and the only ones that are comfortable. A gift from Catelyn from a few years back.

She had hoped that this would be good enough to not call any attention to herself, but of course… Lannister has to attack whenever he can.

Brienne blinks at him, trying to gather her thoughts, but then decides to gather nothing at all and simply proceed to the bar.

“Now, now, did I say something wrong already?” he asks, walking after her. “I thought I’d have a bit more time before you’d rush away from me, making a face.”

“No, it’s just… unfamiliar to talk in a… private setting,” Brienne manages to say. “Sir.”

“Oh, right, not mixing private with professional life, are we?” Jaime chuckles. “Well, it’s not just us two here, right? So it’s hardly private.”

“Right… I need a drink,” Brienne whirls around to the bar, motioning at the barkeeper. “A Dirty Martini, please.”

“ _Dirty_ Martini? No Sex on the Beach before we get down to the dirty bits?” he teases.

“And a Bahama Mama for him,” Brienne finds herself say before she can even think about it. To hear him laugh at it is a huge relief – yet, she can feel her shoulders tense to the point that she thinks her joints may pull out of their sockets.

You can’t act that way around your team leader!

 _Stupid thing, stupid thing_!

Didn’t Septa Roelle tell her often enough?

“Who could have guessed that the lady is even capable of some loose fun,” he chuckles.

“Will that fall back on me in training now?” she asks.

Will it?

“We are here as private persons, so no,” Jaime tells her. “What happens in the Dragonpit… stays in the Dragonpit.”

And Brienne feels a bit relieved upon hearing that.

If only her shoulders got the news as well – she must look like a walking wardrobe anyways, but right now it feels as though her shoulders were trying to pop out of their sockets.

“Your drinks, ma’am, sir,” the bartender says, handing the drinks over the bar.

“Thank you,” Brienne nods at the bartender. Lannister called in beforehand to have everything arranged so they just put down the drinks under his name, or so he said on the way to the Dragonpit.

“Well, I actually planned on starting with a grand kind of toast, but it appears that the guys already enjoy themselves without me. No wonder, no one wants to hang out with the chaperone or parent, for the matter. That’s an instant mood-kill,” Jaime grins, lifting up his glass. “So, ugh… cheers?”

“Cheers,” Brienne says, clinking her glass against his before lifting it to her lips quickly.

“That drink isn’t the almost bad,” Jaime grins. “A bit sweet, but… I expected worse.”

“Well, you can order yourself a Scotch next, to wash it down,” Brienne shrugs her shoulders, taking another sip of her drink.

“Scotch? Why would I order a Scotch?” he asks.

That smile is definitely new.

Not empty.

Not bitter.

… Something else.

“Or another Bahama Mama, or whatever else… I just thought you’d be a Scotch type, I don’t know,” Brienne replies sheepishly.

This is really awkward.

She should go see the team or so.

She should abort the mission and flee, to be exact.

“Scotch type?” he tilts his head at her.

Brienne always found it strange to see people from work outside of work – but somehow, sitting there with Jaime Lannister of all people is a whole new level of strange.

He seems way too human like that.

“Well, don’t you like Scotch?” Brienne questions.

Why does she keep talking again?

What about aborting the mission?

“It’s my favorite in fact,” Jaime says, pulling Brienne back to the reality of having conversation with him.

No tunnel view, she reminds herself. No spacing off.

“There you go,” Brienne replies.

“But how did you guess it?” he asks.

“It’s fancy, it’s more exclusive than some… Vodka… men love it… and you threw away an empty bottle some two weeks ago, in the mansion,” Brienne tells him.

“Ahh, good. It’s still a small wonder that one of you guys even bothers to listen to my advices,” Jaime grins.

“Well, I should see about the other guys, see that they make no trouble,” Brienne says, tapping her knuckles on the bar thrice before getting up.

“You can treat me a Scotch later,” he winks at her.

“I thought _you’d_ pay,” she frowns.

“I do, but you can order one for me,” he chuckles.

“… Okay,” Brienne replies slowly, but then quickly walks over to the small lounge area where Robb, Theon, and Loras gathered.

She has no particular problems with them. In fact, they are the only ones on the team she feels somewhat friendly with, even if it has always been a bit tense between her and Loras, but he usually just doesn't care about what she does, and Theon is someone she simply barely knows, coming from the other end of Westeros. He was in Winterfell for the longest of times, though he was born on Pyke. That is what she knows. And that he is friends with Robb Stark, having been pretty much raised by Eddard Stark the same way.

But it only dawns on her at that moment that she didn’t actually talk to any of them in a few weeks. Sure, they talked, but _real_ conversation?

Not at all.

Lannister is probably right about them. They are anything but a team.

How are they supposed to become one if they can’t even be on friendly terms in private?

How are you supposed to communicate on a mission if you can’t in normal life?

No wonder he considers getting rid of the team.

“Robb?” she finds herself speak up before she can even think about it.

Someone has to start, right?

Even if it’s someone who is definitely no good at small-talk.

“Yes?” he turns to her, visibly surprised to have Brienne addressing him, but polite enough to not make a face.

“Uhm, sorry, I didn’t ask in a while, but how is your mother doing?” Brienne asks shyly.

She is _so_ bad at starting conversations.

Or talking in general.

He blinks at her – and for a moment, Brienne wants to jump behind the couch, but then he flashes a small smile, “She’s well. She still hopes that you come for visit, Riverrun or Winterfell either way.”

Brienne dares to return a small smile, glad for it that Robb seemingly gets it.

“It’s been far too long, I know, but I guess you know best how hard it is to take a trip all the way up North with the current schedule,” Brienne replies with a small smile, trying to ease into the situation.

She is among fellows, she reminds herself.

Comrades.

How are they supposed to be a team if they can’t consider each other as such?

“Quite a few years since you were in the survival training in Riverrun, I remember,” Robb nods.

Brienne still remembers vividly when she first came to the survival training slash adventure trips Catelyn hosts – along with the one they run up North. Brienne thought it’d be a great experience to train her skills, but in fact the greatest thing was to have Catelyn around her. She was one of the few women who treated her kindly and didn’t just wrinkle her nose at her for the sake of her looks.

When Catelyn told her that she wanted to see her again soon, Brienne had to take a moment to gather herself – and booked another tour just a month later.

Catelyn was also the woman to ever bother about turning up for her birthday – and give her the shoes as a present, stating that she expected her to wear those to her birthday likewise, having remembered Brienne mentioning to her that she doesn’t wear high heels because she finds them uncomfortable – but not the pair Catelyn gave to her. While Brienne did as she asked her for Catelyn’s birthday, the contact broke off little by little thereafter, because Catelyn returned to Winterfell to handle business there, leaving the camp in her uncle Brynden’s hands, and Brienne was caught up with the job around here.

People just keep drifting apart and away, or so it seems.

“And, and Talisa?” Brienne goes on. She never got to know her, really. Catelyn just told her over the phone that Robb had married in all secret, even if the family had other plans, so Catelyn was more than displeased about that – and because Robb had not invited her, something that surely hit her personally. “How is she?”

“She is very well indeed,” Robb smiles.

“Does she still work in the clinic?” Brienne asks.

“Actually she started a private practice,” Robb replies.

“Oh, that’s a huge step,” Brienne nods.

“Well, one of them…,” he says.

“What now?” Theon frowns.

“You mean to say?” Robb frowns.

“Your voice changed right there,” Loras says. “And now you are nervous, bypass eye contact, and rub your hands. That either means you lied, or you are not telling all that you know.”

“Oh, the master profiler tries to show off?” Theon huffs.

“Those are basic things, in case you didn’t know,” Loras huffs.

“Is something wrong with Talisa?” Brienne asks Robb, who shakes his head quickly, “No, no, nothing is wrong with her.”

“Then what is it? C’mon, spill already,” Theon leans his head back.

“… We are… we are expecting a child,” Robb admits, rubbing his palms together.

“What? Why didn’t I know about that?” Theon cries out.

“Because I didn’t tell you,” Robb shrugs.

“Congratulations to you both,” Brienne offers a small smile. “I bet Catelyn is thrilled about the news?”

“Well… that is once she… finds out,” Robb makes a face.

“You didn’t tell her either? Man, that’s not good, let me tell you,” Theon grimaces, clapping him on the shoulder.

“She is still getting used to the idea that we got married without inviting her to the ceremony. She wasn’t pleased,” Robb shrugs. “At all.”

“I bet she’ll be glad about the news. She values the family highly, as far as I got to know her,” Brienne offers. Robb offers an uncertain grin, “Yeah, she does. Well, there’s not much hiding once Talisa starts to show anyways.”

“Does that mean you’ll drop out, Stark?” Loras asks simply.

“No,” he shakes his head. “Why should I?”

“Dangerous job, family… maybe you want to have a white-collar job now,” Loras shrugs his shoulders.

“Hey, he can do whatever the hell he wants,” Theon argues.

“You say so _now_. Just wait until you have that child,” Loras huffs. “That’s why I’m glad to keep away from all that business.”

“Yeah, the little pillow biter surely doesn’t have to worry about children,” Theon snorts.

“Say that one more time to my face and I jump across the table,” Loras warns him in a low hiss.

“Guys, let’s stay peaceful,” Robb argues.

“What? He wants to diss me – and I’m supposed to just swallow that?” Loras argues vehemently. “And that coming from –”

“– How is Margaery doing?” Brienne jumps in, surprised at herself for interrupting him.

She usually doesn’t interrupt anyone, fearing that she will just forget what she was about to say and make a fool out of herself.

It's odd that she can put all of that aside for as long as she is doing her job, but not once she is in a private setting.

At some point, Brienne always feels more at ease in the midst of a mission than at a dinner table.

Or a dance club, for the matter.

“What?” Loras blinks at her – surely not expecting her to interrupt him. He doesn’t know that attitude from her, at all.

“How’s Margaery? I didn’t talk to her in a longer while. I always wanted to ask you, but then didn’t. So, ugh, how is she?” Brienne asks in a softer tone this time. “You see her more often than I do, naturally.”

“She’s… she’s well. She’s on a business trip at present. They have good chances of expanding the franchise and maybe open up some more shops outside King’s Landing,” Loras replies.

“Good for her,” Brienne nods.

And somehow, the four of them actually start to have a stiff but _less_ stiff than usual conversation thereafter. Brienne is just glad for once to get a short-lived feeling of what it’d be like to really be just that – a team, comrades.

After some drinks, the mood loosens up a whole lot indeed, the music hammering louder yet duller in their ears.

At some point Brienne is actually glad for it that she decided to approach them despite her insecurities. It really does feel a bit more like a team than it did just on the mission, where no one knew what the other person was up to except for those who were friends before anyways.

“What are Hunt and Connington up to again?” Theon makes a face.

“Getting drunk and believing that this makes them any more attractive,” Loras snorts. “They didn’t quite grasp the concept of putting on one’s beer goggles.”

“I liked it how you tackled him to the ground,” Theon laughs, turning to Brienne.

“You are just mad that he occupied your space of being the dick of the group,” Loras huffs, amused. “… I’m drunk, don’t mind me. That always makes me bitchy.”

“Does that mean you are drunk all the time?” Robb asks with a small grin.

“That may be,” Loras shrugs, sinking back against the leather of the couch.

“Oh no, they are coming over,” Loras rolls his eyes, taking a sip from his beer.

And in fact, Hunt and Connington halfway stumble, halfway dance their way over to them.

“Hey, no one’s told us that we were having a team meeting here,” Connington drawls.

“We are just sitting here, having a drink,” Robb tells him in a calm voice.

People always say that he is a lot like his father Eddard – and Brienne can see that, even if she doesn’t know Eddard too well herself, but there is hardly anyone with a cleaner record than him.

“Not hitting the dance floor yet? How boring,” he chuckles, but then turns his attention to Brienne. “I wanted to talk to you anyways. About what happened back in the training the other time. I hope we don’t hold any grudges because of it. I was just…”

“ _Making fun_ , I’m sure,” Brienne interrupts, once again, caught off-guard by herself that she even speaks up.

She should definitely quit the Martinis.

They loosen her tongue way too much.

“Right, it was more of a joke, but I see that I may gone a little too rough on you,” he says, extending his hand to her. “Can we make peace?”

“I didn’t know we were at war,” she huffs, taking his hand anyway.

In fact, she is at war with him, but Brienne told herself that she’d leave it at ceasefire.

Private and work are things you should keep apart, or according to Lannister, you should try your best to keep it apart for as long as you can.

And Brienne is set on keeping that man out of her private spectrum the best she can.

He messed up enough for her.

“I mean to object here, if someone was rough on someone, it was her. She’s kicked your ass,” Theon laughs into his drink, only to get side-eyed from Connington.

“Twice,” Loras mutters into his drink as well. Theon snorts gleefully at that.

“Well, as I was going to say, I hope that doesn’t stand between us. After all, we have a long history together, don’t we?” he says with the typical kind of smile that Brienne hates so very much that she’d love to punch his teeth out.

“I wouldn’t say that it was a long history, but more of a short intermezzo that was a long while ago,” Brienne tells him, trying her best to keep her voice and words _diplomatic_.

“Well, Hyle and I were wondering if you don’t want to hit the dance floor with us, for old time’s sake,” he goes on.

“Right,” Hyle agrees.

“For old time’s sake,” she repeats in a flat voice. “If you know what’s good for you, you will forget that you ever asked, turn back around and do whatever else, or else I will hit you _on_ the dance floor.”

“That you always have to be so violent,” Ronnet huffs.

“I merely pointed something out to you. If I wanted to be violent, my boot would be somewhere entirely else at this second, right where it hurts,” Brienne hisses, but then quickly takes a sip of her beer.

She is really being way too confident.

And apparently, way too much out for a fight.

That’s no good.

Teams don’t fight.

Even if it’s Connington… or Hunt.

“All those years and you still didn’t forget about that, huh?” he exhales.

“You are the one to constantly remind me of it, well, the both of you,” Brienne says, looking at Hyle for a moment, who is actually smart enough to avert his gaze this time.

That man only feels confident to insult her when he has others backing him up.

Some men are truly useless sheep.

“That’s teasing and jesting. Geez, we never mean for it, you are the one who’s always so tensed up about it,” Connington exhales. “See, why don’t you take that as a peace offer? A small dance? Gods forbid, maybe you’ll even enjoy yourself – if you’d let a man take the lead for once.”

“I enjoyed myself about just fine without you here,” Brienne retorts.

“Oh, c’mon.”

“You are drunk.”

“So are you. That makes two of us, well three.”

“Get lost – and don’t make me say it a second time. I’m not nearly drunk enough to not flip you to the ground in front of the entire audience. And we both know that I’ll manage. And after the training you should know that I won’t hesitate to do it either. So… off you go,” Brienne finds herself say.

Though she really can’t believe it.

She never talks like that, _never_.

“Well, so much to good teamwork,” Ronnet shrugs. “C’mon, Hyle, let’s see if there aren’t less wench-like women around here.”

“Maybe another time,” Hyle says to Brienne.

“Or maybe never,” Loras snorts into his drink again. With that, Hyle and Ronnet trot off again.

“So okay, can anyone provide subtext for this?” Theon makes a face. “You three know each other?”

“Yes,” Brienne exhales, leaning back in her seat.

So much to how this might be a first step towards a team.

“What was that about, then?” Robb asks.

“It's not even worth mentioning. We were still youths by the time. As for Hyle Hunt… a date gone entirely wrong – and that’s all there ever was to it,” Brienne says, not looking at any of them, her eyes instead fixed on Hyle and Ronnet as they make their way over to the bar, sniggering.

As always.

Always sniggering.

Always mocking.

“You _dated_ that guy?” Loras blinks at her. “I knew about Connington, but Hunt… geez.”

“Well, we all make bad choices once or twice,” Brienne shrugs.

“Did you mention that when you enrolled for this program?” Robb asks.

“Why should I? With Connington, we were both still youths – and I don’t see why I would have to mention something I did during that time. With Hunt, we came from different departments, it never got serious, and I haven’t seen him for two years before we both enrolled for the Special Forces training. _I_ can put that aside, if they can’t… that’s their problem,” Brienne replies.

“I don’t know if I could be so calm with two of my exes around,” Theon makes a face.

“That is because you always treat them like shit and they’d scratch your eyes out,” Robb argues. Theon wrinkles his nose, but then chuckles anyway, “That… may be.”

“Curious, you are the one who knows almost everybody of the team from the past, except for Theon, well, and Lannister, that is,” Robb says.

“Lucky me, I suppose,” Brienne sighs, taking another sip from her beer, only to realize that it’s empty.

Right, she is so lucky to know them all. At first, Brienne had honestly considered to go ahead and wait for another team to form, but then thought better of it.

Because the truth is just that simple – no matter who is on her team, she’ll always be looked at for her looks, the way she talks, her awkwardness, her very being.

So what does it matter if it’s people from her past? The advantage is that she already knows what she is up to with these guys.

That makes the disappointment less stinging… most of the time.

“I need another drink. I’ll see you guys later,” Brienne says abruptly. She gets up and makes her way over to the bar with fast strides, the music suddenly hammering louder in her ears.

Why does she even bother to think about them?

Why can’t she just put it away?

Sometimes she is really more of a child after all.

Sometimes… sometimes she really wished she was more like Lannister. He doesn’t care what people throw at him. He just flashes his empty smile. It doesn’t get past his defenses.

Sometimes she really wished she had that sort of confidence.

That sort of strength.

But then again… at some point she is afraid that there might be a way higher price to pay for that defense than she is willing to pay.

She may not have a pretty smile, but at least she doesn't have a hollow smile.

Brienne already opens her mouth to order another beer, when she finds herself interrupted, “Ah, so you crept your way back here after all, Tarth?”

“I… suppose,” she replies, blinking.

It’s really odd to have him here, to be here.

“So, I think you still owe me something,” he says. Brienne blinks again, nods slowly, then turns around to the next-best bartender, “Two Scotches, please.”

“Ah, and here I thought Scotch was a men’s drink,” he chuckles softly. Brienne reckons he already had a few drinks himself, or else she doesn’t see why he’d bother to keep talking to her.

Though it’s curious, really. She watched him from her spot. He didn’t talk to anyone. He turned a few girls down who asked for a dance. He just sat there by the bar, glanced around once or twice, but other than that… there was just him.

Well, some lions are lonely lions after all, or so it seems.

Or rather, Kingslayers…

“I said that mostly men like it. That doesn’t mean women don’t like it either,” Brienne tells him.

And who is she kidding? She is more of a man than a woman half of the time.

She likes Scotch, football, kickboxing, and whittling.

“So… aren’t you hitting the dance floor, Tarth?” he asks, pulling Brienne back out of her thoughts.

“I don’t dance,” she replies curtly. “Are you?”

“Well, judging by you side-eyeing me from over there, you know that I didn’t,” Jaime tells her. Brienne tries her best to act… _natural_ now.

“It’s a free country,” she says.

“Oh, is it?” he sighs, leaning his head back. “Ugh, now we are talking about politics, how boring.”

“Did you make a decision yet? If you want to keep the team?” Brienne asks.

“After one not-screwed-up mission? I don’t think that’d be a smart move on my behalf. It might’ve been luck after all – and then I’d be stuck with you out of a rushed decision. In fact it was luck that the little Octopus didn’t startle the gang with his clumsy feet,” Jaime says, taking a sip from his Scotch. “Hm, the Scotch is actually pretty good.”

Brienne nods, not looking at him, as she takes a sip of her Scotch as well.

“What? Now don’t tell me you are sad that I _may_ hand you over to someone else – and you’d get rid of me as your pain-in-the-ass-team-leader. Tarth, that disappoints me. You are supposed to hate me,” he chuckles, amused. “I worked so hard on that.”

Again, that empty smile.

“You do the job outright in that department,” she mumbles with the glass still wrapped around her lips. Lannister laughs out loud at this, “That’s a relief. I already feared I failed you in that regard.”

His lips curl into a frown then. Jaime fishes out his cellphone, checks the screen, then stuffs the phone back into his pocket angrily.

“The dear family,” he huffs. “Perhaps the greatest pain in the ass of them all.”

Brienne chooses not to comment.

Rumors are rumors.

And even if they aren’t, they are none of her business.

You don't mix private and profession for as long as you can.

And she only stands at the beginning of her career, well, at least for the Special Forces.

“I see you tried to do some team-mating?” he goes on to question.

“I just tried to get back into touch with them. You said it yourself, we are no team…,” Brienne replies mutely. “Well, frankly, no wonder if we can’t even manage to have small talk in a bar.”

“Well, for that it worked fine with at least those three little shits,” Lannister shrugs his shoulders.

“Yeah, well, but those three aren’t the entire team,” Brienne argues.

And therein lies the problem.

“I already told you, you shouldn’t be looking out for friends here,” he tells her. Brienne whips her head around to him, “You also said that we need to be a team.”

“Yeah, but friends and teams aren’t necessarily the same. You are not supposed to make yourself friends here. You are supposed to be doing your job properly,” he says.

“Well, if we work better as a team, I can do my job properly, right?” Brienne argues.

“That relies on the premise that they have any intention to form a team,” Jaime argues. “And that’s what I’m by no means sure about.”

“Well, it can’t harm to try,” Brienne replies, not looking at him.

She can already feel the heat of disappointment and anger rising to her cheeks.

Because he just proves it again – he doesn’t even care if they become a team.

He has no faith in them.

In any of them.

Her father used to tell her that the dangerous men were those who held nothing too dear in life, because those who have nothing to lose have nothing to protect.

And someone who doesn’t protect what’s dear to him will likely not find it in himself to protect someone or something he doesn’t hold that dear.

“It can harm to try. Disappointment is what you call it,” Lannister argues, with the hollow kind of smiles that still gives her chills. “So if you want to spare yourself the disappointment, you should try your best to connect to them on the professional level, but don’t take things too personally. Always remember your own vows – about trying to keep private and job apart. Or else you’ll only land yourself in a huge mess.”

Brienne just looks at her Scotch, at the ice melting.

“Well, then the case is pretty clear, isn’t it?” she finds herself say, her voice calm, even if she feels a cold kind of fire burning her guts.

“Is it?” he chuckles, slightly amused, or so it seems.

Because he is unreadable again.

“You say we don’t stand a chance of becoming a team. You believe that we won’t be a team. And any attempt to perhaps bring us closer together is futile in your opinion anyways. So yes, the case is clear, you don’t want to keep that team. You already think we are damned anyways,” she says, her lips barely moving apart. “So why even bother?”

And here she thought he had brought them here to celebrate their small victory in all earnest.

“Then you got me wrong,” he argues. “I’m actually trying to make you aware of the fact that you will likely end up being disappointed. Because this group isn’t ideal, because its team leader isn’t. Because the circumstances aren’t. Look, I appreciate the effort you just made, and I bet those three will do that, too, for a while. So maybe you’ll get along with them better from now on, but you can be sure that the very next occasion where I or anyone else makes an off-hand comment about you or tackles you down, they’ll laugh like all of them will. This is one night. A night doesn’t change anything… well, at least when it comes to these kinds of things.”

“It may have been a first step,” she replies.

 _Right_?

“The question is in what direction. Will some small talk ensure that you will rightly anticipate Little Wolf’s movements the next time? Because you _completely_ misread him during the raid. Like the Hulk didn’t get your sign to move to the left instead of the right. You wouldn’t have that bruise on your neck from the choke one of the drug dealers had on you if Hunt had followed your lead right away, and not once the bastard’s had you in the choke and the Hulk jumped into action at last."

Brienne touches her neck absently, feeling the dull ache of where the man had grabbed her violently.

She completely forgot the moment of desperation, having cursed at Hyle mentally for not getting it right, for taking so damn long.

After it was over, she had been so cheerful about the small success that she completely forgot.

"Curly Hair and Octopus wouldn’t have been forced to chase the other two halfway down the street if Little Griffin Shit had guarded the door the way he was supposed to – because he had to play hero and toss himself at the leader, because he didn’t want to leave all of the laurels to the Little Wolf alone. Octopus didn't read my signs to move to the left because he was too preoccupied looking at his BFF and make sure that he was alright, and Curly Hair was too busy winning the race against Octopus that they took for granted that we had the entire house secured when they walked them back, instead of checking the back of the house and the surrounding area,” he says, and Brienne just stares at him. “Just like half of you may have been dead if I had not held the one with the big gun who’s hidden in the corner at gunpoint, even though that would have been the Little Wolf’s job.”

Brienne blinks.

She thought they had done a good job this time.

He had even said so.

Why did she trust his words again?

He never means what he says.

Stupid thing! Stupid thing!

“I let you have that bit of victory because it does the team good to feel like they didn’t fail completely, but in the end, you acted like _anything_ but a team, and a couple of beers and small talk don’t fix that. What matters is that you sync in the field. That’s what you, what all of you should focus on instead of the small quarrels or small talks. So, with all due respect to you and your attempt of igniting some sort of team spirit tonight, it’s wishful thinking to believe that this fixes anything about your dreadful teamwork.”

The words just wash over her along with the music.

“Look at them now. They didn’t bother to look over to the bar, to you, just once since you left – if only to check if you are coming back, or maybe join you by the bar because they enjoy your company. Or Gods forbid, care about you above the level of casual interest. Curly Hair left to talk to some strangers, probably trying to hit on that other curly haired dude over there. The BFFs have their fun, like they always do, always working better if it’s just the two of them. They have a group on their own the way the Hulk and Griffin Shit do. Is that what a team looks like to you, you tell me?”

Brienne looks at her team mates, one by one.

He is right.

And that really stings now.

“ _That_ is what makes me pessimistic.”

“And _that_ is what should make you way more cautious, if you know what’s good for you, Tarth.”

Brienne just keeps looking.

All her confidence and smiles… gone.

“Don’t search for friends, try your best to figure out the way they move and the way they turn their heads once you are on a mission. Know their move before they know it. Read them, dissect them. Don’t try to get friendly with them, analyze them, use them. That’s the best you can do. Know your enemies, but know your comrades even better.”

“Then why did you bring us here? If you knew that this would be the result?” Brienne asks solemnly, not looking at him.

“Because it’s tradition,” he says with a shrug and that awful hollow smile she’d like to punch out of him at this second, but her body feels numb.

Definitely too many Martinis.

“Cheers to tradition, then,” Brienne says numbly, lifting her glass.

“Cheers,” Jaime mutters in a quiet voice as well.

They remain seated by the bar, the music of the Dragonpit swallowing all other sound.

Wordless.

And apparently, seemingly hopeless, too.


	4. Shower

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Brienne gets news. 
> 
> Brienne gets secrets. 
> 
> Brienne gets more than she ever expected.
> 
> And likely more than she wanted to know.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone! Thanks for sticking around! And hugest of apologies for taking that awfully long with an update. 
> 
> This was giving me a bit of a headache... and yeah, writer's blocks block an they are bitches. 
> 
> In any case... I hope you'll enjoy anyway! 
> 
> Much love! ♥♥♥

Brienne stands under the shower, the water so steaming hot that it almost burns her skin.

How long she’s dreaded for that sensation.

The training was excruciating today, and Brienne always waits until the men are well out of the shower before she dares to step in. When the training camp here began, the men mocked her about “lady’s first”, just to be lamenting about it, or joking about how they could “share” in Connington’s and Hunt’s cases, noting that maybe they would then discover that they are actually that “much more alike” than she lets on. Brienne eventually told them to go first on principle to bypass further stabbing comments at her expenses, even if that meant to stay in her sweat and the dirt sticking to her freckled skin, like a thick, rough layer, much longer than she’d usually like to.

So the hot water is one of the few remedies to her aching body.

Every muscle is tensed to the point that she fears they might rupture. And she is bruised all over, her body one giant map of islands of color ranging from yellow to purple.

Training really shouldn’t be underestimated.

And Lannister is unforgiving in training – especially these past few days. Though Brienne reckons that it may boil down to him simply meaning to pay her back for talking to him the way she had back in the Dragonpit.

Because she definitely overstepped some boundaries she would rather turn away from again, if only she could.

So much to keeping job and personal life apart.

The odd thing is that the snarky smile almost vanished from his face. Lannister is now just busy barking commands and orders.

After she learned that their first mission was actually more of a debacle than a success, Brienne realized that Jaime was much more pushing for the simulations, forcing them through similar scenarios again and again, to the point that all were just moaning after the umpteenth repetition of the same move, the same maneuver.

They didn't have any new missions yet, though Brienne reckons that he wants to make sure that they don't get each other killed before he lets them out of the training cage again – and the way it looks like, it might be never again that they are assigned a mission.

So yes, training was and is unforgiving these past few days.

If you mewl too much, you only have to run more.

If you don’t do it right, you have to do it again until you get it right.

Failure is no option.

Though that is something she is actually glad about, in a strange sort of way, because that is the only thing that gives her a flicker of hope that maybe he takes the team more seriously than he lets on. Because, after that night out, Brienne is still by no means convinced that Lannister has even the slightest interest in making them a team.

It still damn well hurts – all over.

Though Brienne always perceived pain from exhaustion as a sign that you gave it everything you had. That is one of the paradigms Brienne tries her best to live by. So she always took that kind of pain as strangely reassuring, assuring her of the fact that she lived up to her standards against all odds.

She leans her head against the cold tiles, allowing the steaming hot water to slosh over her neck to ease some of the tension out of her broad shoulders.

Brienne appreciates the intensive training, because it puts the important things into focus. Once exhaustion peels all of your thoughts away, your body start to react instantly. There is a kind of clarity Brienne honestly cherishes more than she does a day of light training.

At the same time, she dreads the intensive training because of obvious reasons: The team – if it even is one. And the team leader who still has way too much pleasure taunting her.

A few days back she went out for a run in the early evening, to clear her head, only to see Lannister’s jeep on the outskirt of the property, parked next to some fancy-looking, deep red car that seemed oddly out of place in this almost desert-like area, talking to a woman with reddish blonde hair and sunglasses so big that she looked like a fly, though she looked as beautiful as a butterfly. From what Brienne heard, the two were in a heated argument.

And the Seven know that Brienne really has no intention whatsoever to constantly walk in on Lannister in private. She was just running – only to run into that situation. Lannister gave her such a glare that it made the fine hairs in her neck stand upright. Brienne didn’t know what to do, suddenly feeling more afraid than she’d ever be on a mission – and there she is in mortal danger by contrast, and wanted to dive behind the next dry bush. Instead, she stood there awkwardly for a long moment.

“What are you doing here?” he grunted at her. Brienne babbled something likely nonsensical about having been there for a walk. For some reason, she then bowed out of reflex, excusing herself, before running off. In the distance she heard the woman commenting on it with a laugh, asking Lannister if she seriously just bowed.

Ever since that day, he seemed even harsher, the easy smiles faded away almost completely, an Brienne felt even worse as a result, fearing that she accidentally got him even madder at her though she tries her best to keep her distance.

But somehow… they just keep running into each other, or so it seems. And that is what makes her crave for hard training ever the more, to push all of those thoughts and memories away. Because she has to be very exhausted to peel even that hollow feeling out of her stomach.

Are they a team?

Is there even a chance?

Is Lannister right?

Or wrong?

And if he is right, what is she supposed to do with that? If she can’t be a team with the guys, and shouldn’t bother to try – then how is she supposed to work properly?

Or is it all futile anyways?

And if it is, why does Lannister keep pushing them – and especially her? Why does he push ever the harder these past few days?

Is it really just because she accidentally walked in on him twice?

Brienne doesn’t know, and it’s driving her nearly insane not to know. But she can’t ask either, and even if she did, she knows she’d only get a snotty reply and a smug smile in return.

Brienne just hopes that things will improve once they really have operations as a team – to prove him wrong. Because it is as Lannister says, simulations are not real, and for as long as there is no real threat, Brienne reckons that they will stick to their games of mockery, will stick to themselves and the people they care about by any chance, which means that they still aren’t anything close to a team. You grow together through hardships, not simulations that mean nothing in the end.

 _Right_?

The blonde woman sighs as she turns off the water, taking a few more moments to savor the sensation of the water droplets running down her flushed skin.

That is one of the few soft touches she’s ever received that won’t ever be mockery.

Because it’s just water.

Water has no feelings.

Holds no judgment.

Brienne grabs the towel she’s hooked over one of the unoccupied shower heads of the communal shower, drying her face to get the water out of her eyes. One of the upsides of having the shower to herself is that she can just hang it there and doesn’t have to go through the changing room first.

Brienne knows she’s ugly, but she doesn’t need people looking at her in that way more often than necessary.

Not to mention that she doesn't like the thought of the other guys having their dear fun at her expenses over the matter.

Brienne sighs as she flings the towel over her back, which she finds a bit too small, sadly, and means to wrap it in front when suddenly she sees someone leaning against the entrance of the shower, one boot resting against the frame, arms crossed over his chest…

Brienne gasps, her feet almost slipping, fidgeting with the towel as she tries to regain balance.

Damn this towel for merely covering her sex.

Damn all this!

And damn… “Lannister!”

“What by the Seven…?”

He pushes back from the wall swiftly, his damned smug smile perfectly in place, eyeing her from head-to-toe once.

Brienne fidgets around, flustered.

Why in the Seven Hells did she ever, for a mere moment, think that he was anything close to a normal human being back in the Dragonpit or the infirmary?

Or Gods forbid, that he was actually on her side, in his awful way?

“Don’t worry, not interested,” Jaime grins at her as Brienne keeps adjusting the towel.

She can feel the blush creeping up her entire body, so hot that she believes for a split second that the water on her skin is about to evaporate.

That had to come, and of course, it had to come today.

“What do you want?” she demands, her sapphire eyes now narrow slits. Lannister produces an envelope from his folded arms, holding it between index and middle finger, his smug grin getting smugger and darker by the minute.

Brienne would like to disappear into a puddle of shame at this very second, but knows better than to let that on. He wants to taunt her, she reminds herself. He wants to see just that reaction. If she shows him that, he will only feel fueled.

Don’t give them the pleasure of letting it show that it affects you, she reminds herself.

He just means to taunt her.

He just wants to provoke her to anger.

That’s all it is about.

That is what it’s always about – not just Lannister, but every other man mocking her.  

But for as long as you don't let it show on your face, he will lose interest sooner or later.

Destroy their game, destroy the mockery.

“This here just reached me and I’m supposed to give it to you,” the team leader says. “Presently.”

“And you couldn’t have waited until I was out of the shower?” 

“That would imply that I‘d want to waste my time waiting for you to finish up. I have better to do, Tarth,” Lannister replies. “You can count yourself lucky that I even bothered.”

That he doesn't bother to even turn his gaze is what drives her nearly insane at this moment.

Why does he keep looking?

Why does he keep humiliating her?

Isn’t it enough to crush her hopes of teamwork?

Brienne snaps the envelope from his long fingers, “Okay, you can now waste your time some other place, then.”

“Others would say ‘thank you’ for being so kind to play the delivery boy."

Brienne bites her lower lip before sighing, “ _Thank you_ , sir.”

“You are welcome,” he chuckles, his lips curling into a wicked smile. 

“You know, some people would call that the first step towards sexual harassment,” Brienne fumes.

“Told you, not interested... I mean, I can only repeat it – we have that fancy comment box with glitter and unicorns, in case you want to complain about it.”

“Whatever."

Don’t give him the satisfaction.

Don’t let him see it.

Don’t, just don’t.

“You should better read it fast. Seems important. _Fancy_ paper,” he goes on with that singing, taunting voice that makes her clammy skin nothing but gooseflesh. And it is even worse at this moment because there is no top to cover that. There is just this too small towel.

And he knows that.

And he takes pleasure in her discomfort.

Asshole.

Brienne growls, stuffing her towel under her armpits to move her arms awkwardly to open the envelope without dropping the last shield she has from his emerald, darting eyes.

Her eyes scan the page for vital information, but her features drop once she has it.

For a moment, even Lannister is gone from her mind as the words dance before her eyes.

Tunnel view shall be damned.

“What is it?” Jaime asks with a frown, noting her unnaturally wide eyes and the tremble in her fingers as they close tighter and tighter around the envelope, the dampness of her fingertips painting the white paper grey and soaking her fingerprints in.

“None of your business,” Brienne snarls, though her voice lacks the strength it had mere seconds ago. “ _Sir_.”

Jaime tilts his head at her once he sees a shimmer of wetness in her eyes that doesn’t come from the water still running down her body like long, translucent tendrils.

“C’mon, Tarth. I can’t leave you a crying mess. I’m the team leader after all,” he says, his smug smile morphing into an awkward, crooked grimace.

“Goodwin died,” Brienne breathes out, not looking at him, but the paper again as it gets soaked underneath her fingers, gets wet and soft, disperses…

“Who?” Jaime blinks at her.

“My mentor, I… he passed away,” Brienne mutters, still not looking at him but the paper.

“Oh, ugh… I… I am… sorry, that… I didn’t know,” Jaime stammers, averting his gaze.

If Brienne cared at this moment, she probably would have been surprised by his apparently sincere shock and what sounds like sympathy.

Or at the fact that he now looks down, the smug smile fading away.

But she doesn’t care.

She just feels cold and empty.

Even the anger floated out of her through the water travelling down her skin.

“I… I didn't think they’d send a letter. I mean, they are supposed to call to the phone in the office in case of emergency,” Jaime goes on. “Or else I would’ve…”

To make sure that the recruits stay on-target, they were supposed to hand in their cell phones when they first came here. They have a public phone in the office, but it’s only supposed to be used in cases of emergency. Jaime thought that if it was something like that, she’d get a phone call, not some letter. He thought it was something totally unnecessary. A pep-talk letter from her father or whatever else.

Not _this_.

“He had no living relatives… so no one bothered to call, I suppose… and I’m seemingly part of his last will, which is why I get a letter now, but…,” Brienne says, licking her wet lips, which feel so dry, however. 

“I will have to make some phone calls..."

“Of course,” Jaime agrees. “The office will be… free for you to use, however long it takes you. I'll see to it that you have your privacy.”

“Yeah, well, thank you for bringing it by,” she adds feebly before storming past him into the changing room, grabbing her bag in a hurry.

Jaime turns on the heel, but before he can say something, she is already over by the door and walks on.

“Really sorry.”

* * *

 

Brienne is more than glad to have put the training camp behind herself. While she is still steadfast in her will to join the Special Forces, she is glad that she got the breather she really needed after receiving the news about Goodwin’s death.

The funeral was even sadder than it was by virtue of being the funeral of her mentor, the one person who always believed in her and pushed her career believing that Brienne could be more than a girl trying out in a male dominated field.

A friend of the family – and her friend especially.

The really tragic thing was that she was one of so few people who even attended the ceremony. Her father would have come, had he not been overseas by the time. Though he made arrangements to make sure that the expenses were covered and sent the hugest bouquet he could probably buy, which looked enormous compared to the few flower arrangements set by the grave eventually.

That left a few distant relatives, some men with whom he worked… and Brienne. In the black uniform that itched and felt too tight in most places, and too wide in all the others.

It was only because of her mentor that she even made that stupid speech which came out all croaked and probably past a person’s comprehension because Brienne mumbled it into the microphone with a shaky voice. She was never fond of speaking up in front of people. And to speak about someone she deeply cared about made it even worse.

She was supposed to talk _feelings_.

And Brienne is no good talking about feelings even to those people she trusts.

But back there, she was supposed to do so in front of people she hardly knew.

In front of people who didn’t know her either.

And didn’t even care.

So, in the end, it was a sad excuse of a speech for a man who definitely deserved better than this meager goodbye.

The saddest thing was really that so little attention was paid to him, after years of service, as though everyone had forgotten about him. Brienne had hoped for the usual honors, but the family seemingly didn’t want it, or didn’t care, and she didn’t feel like it was her right to tell them otherwise.

To watch the coffin being lowered into the ground, and, for one moment, not focusing on Goodwin or the family, but some shadow creeping amidst the trees, as though it mattered. But then the coffin hit the ground, and Brienne’s eyes were back on target, back on perhaps the one good friend she’s ever had.

And now… he’s just gone.

Brienne sighs as she finishes up the peanuts, sitting at a rather crowded bar somewhere down Eel Alley she hasn’t been to before. Well, she is hardly in bars at all. Brienne is not fond of drinking, because drinking equals a loss of control in her opinion. And Brienne hates to lose control.

The Dragonpit only proved her right in that.

Control is one of the few things she can keep most of the time – and it is control she needs if she wants to keep going.

Brienne just had a beer and some peanuts, because that is all that she feared she’d be able to keep down. The past few days, dinner consisted of takeaway, peanuts, some pretzels she’s grabbed from the gas station, and apple juice.

Well, and that beer tonight, after she had to attend this meeting about Goodwin’s last will being announced. Brienne was glad for it that her mentor bore in mind that she’d have no real use for money, coming from a rich family. But he bequeathed her with his weapon collection and she is supposed to make sure that his shooting range stays intact for as long as she lives – for that she’d get to keep it. The rest was divided among the remaining family members and charity for the most part.

Goodwin always stood true to his name. He was a good man.

And Brienne really misses him.

Not that they were really _that_ close. He was not the one she’d call up late at night to go have a beer with, but he was someone who’d be a welcomed guest over at Tarth, a smile on his face whenever her saw her or her father, someone she admired, someone she looked up to, someone who believed in her, always had a piece of advice for her if she asked, and paved some of the way for her.

And now he is gone.

Brienne lets out a sigh. She shed a few tears right at the funeral and shortly thereafter, so she is actually quite past the moment of pure grief. Now, it’s just a dull ache in the back of her neck that makes it stiff, or stiffer than usual.

There will be more training soon. Brienne hopes that this will somehow help her forget all the rest and focus on what’s ahead of her instead of dreading what’s missing from her past now.

She gestures at one of the barkeepers that she wants to pay, putting down a few crumpled bills on the bar. Brienne means to hop off the stool when she hears a voice, loud, way too loud.

And way too familiar.

“Noooooo! I’m stayin’ the Seven Hells wher’ver I want! I’m Jaime fuckin’ Lannister, alright?! I could own this place if I w’nted. Well, my father could, but…”

Brienne whips her head around to see her team leader slouched over in one of the corners.

That she didn't notice him before… but then again, he looks nothing like the man she got to see so far in the training, or even at the Dragonpit.

He wears a worn leather jacket that is faintly red, has an equally worn base cap on his head, though it’s late at night, and he wavers around like a bloody drunkard.

She should better get out of here _fast_.

Brienne doesn’t want to get involved on a personal level with someone she is supposed to work with, not more than she did after those two run-ins and that stupid situation in the shower. She wants to keep those two things apart after all…

“You’ll serve me ‘nother! I’m a citiz’n, it’s my g’ddamn right to keep drinkin’ however long I can for as long as I don't hurl on your filthy floor!”

Brienne mentally scowls herself as she finds herself maneuvering away from the exit and over to the drunken man who is in debate with the owner slash main bartender.

“What is the problem here?” Brienne asks, her face a blank slate, though her sapphire blue eyes are trained on the team leader, who seems about as shocked at her presence as she is at his, but is too sluggish to react in time.

“I told him that I’m not giving him another drink. He’s spent almost half the day here. Now he demanded his keys back, and I won’t be the one who’s responsible for him dying in a car accident,” the bartender replies angrily.

“I told you…,” Lannister begins, but Brienne cuts him off, “I will see to it that he leaves. Thank you. I work with him. I am going to take care of it.”

“ _It_?!” he shrieks. “Me – it? How rude!”

“How much does he owe you?” Brienne turns her attention back to the bartender, ignoring her team leader’s pouting and childish mewling.

She thought the Jaime Lannister she saw in the infirmary or in the Dragonpit were new, but this one… is a complete stranger.

“One hundred… twenty-seven. He’s ordered some of the more expensive bottles only for himself,” the man replies. Brienne wrinkles her nose, “Yeah, that’s _quite_ a bit. Alright, here you go. I will get it back from him once he’s sober. Can you give me his keys? I will see to it that he gets home – _not_ driving his own car.”

“Do you know her?” the owner turns to Lannister, who flashes a lopsided smile, “Do I?”

“Yes, he does. He just thinks he’s being funny,” Brienne snarls.

“I’m hilarious, you know, wench,” Lannister insists. Brienne just goes on ignoring him, “Will you give me the keys now? Then I can end this farce for us all?”

“Here, have them,” the owner says, holding out the keys to her. 

“Thank you." Brienne snatches the keys from the man’s hand before motioning at her team leader, “C’mon, then.”

“Why? No, I wanna stay here,” the man mewls. Brienne doesn't let him go on, but simply pulls him up by his sleeve with a snarl.

This is the last thing she needs right now.

“Help! Help!” he cries out, only to break out chuckling.

“You will shut your mouth right now and come along,” Brienne hisses, still debating with herself to just drop him to the ground and leave.

She didn’t forget that encounter in the shower.

“I’m your team leader,” he pouts.

“You are drunk,” she sighs.

“Your _drunk_ team leader,” he giggles. 

“You either come along right now, or I will drag you. Your choice,” she tells him, ignoring that even now he looks halfway decent... very decent in fact. 

“You know you don’t get to talk to me like that, right?” 

“We are here in civil. That means you are not my boss. _That_ means you will get moving now, or else I will change my mind,” Brienne warns him.

“Oh, now she’s getting bossy. I discover new sides, m’lady. I always thought you’d be just into not bein’ funny ‘nd bein’ stubborn… oh wait, that’s just what this is,” he sniggers. Brienne simply pulls him along this time until they are out in the street.

She still can hardly believe it that this is the same man that earned her goosebumps, the same man who intimidated her by his mere presence he radiated like a sun of its own.

This man is not at all intimidating.

Like a lion without its teeth.

He smells of Scotch and beer.

Even his usually sharp smile is crooked, way too broad.

And his eyes are dull.

So dull.

“Where did you park your car?” 

“Why’d you care?”

“I will take you home, for that I need to know where your car is,” Brienne explains, looking around. 

“You’re takin’ me home? Oh, wench…,” he says with a feral grin, but Brienne interrupts him before he can breed out the mockery dying on his chapped lips, “Shut your mouth. Just tell me where the car is.”

“Why you think will I let you drive ma car?” he looks at her for a long moment, mouth standing wide open.

“It’s either that or you’ll walk,” Brienne warns him.

“What? No fair,” he pouts.

“Make up your mind, before I change mine,” Brienne threatens him.

“Over there,” he sighs, turning around on the heel as though he tried to dance.

The operative word being “tried”.

Brienne pulls him over to the car, though car is an understatement. That car is a true beauty.

Not that Brienne is very interested in cars, though.

She pushes Lannister unceremoniously into the passenger seat. Jaime cries out angrily, pouting to himself, but then curls in on himself like a cat, halfway lying in the seat. Brienne quickly gets behind the steering wheel and starts the car after quickly assessing the car and where everything is.

The ride to Lannister’s apartment is a mixture between lulled japes, mewled pouts, endless lamenting, occasional dozing off, and her shaking him back awake to tell her the direction.

Eventually, they arrive at a large building.

Brienne guessed as much that he would have a loft in one of the most prestigious parts of the city. Brienne gets out of the car and waits from him to crawl out as well, shuts the door behind him, locks the car, and then tosses the keys at him… only to see him watching them fly past him and to the ground.

Which only makes him laugh ever the harder, “Bad toss. Or else I would’ve caught it. I have cat-like reflexes.”

“Of a dead cat,” Brienne snorts.

“Meow,” he chuckles, imitating a cat wiggling around with its paws.

“I will be on my way, then,” Brienne says, sucking her lower lip into her mouth.

“What? Where’re you headin’ to?” He looks at her like a soaked dog and Brienne would like to punch him for it. 

“Home?” she replies simply.

“You’ll walk?” Jaime frowns, his features still sluggish.

“That’s what you do with your legs, yes."

“I didn’t remember you as witty with your comebacks. Or maybe I’m just too drunk… No, I’m _definitely_ too drunk…" He makes a face, wrinking his nose. 

“I'll be gone, then,” Brienne says through pursed lips.

Lannister waves slowly and sluggishly before bending down to grab the keys. Brienne turns to leave when she sees from the corner of her eye that he is just about to topple over and introduce his face to the pavement. She is quick enough to grasp his shoulder to keep him from falling.

“Separation anxiety?” 

“Not more than you seem to be anxious about leaving the pavement,” she retorts, picking up the keys before hooking his arm around her shoulders and pulling him to the apartment complex.

Really, he will have to give her back more than the money she lent him.

 _Much_ more.

“Does that mean you’ve taken pity in me now?” he asks.

“That means I won’t let you kiss the pavement, pass out, and probably get robbed, if not worse. I think you were the one to give us the speech about team work a while back,” Brienne tells him, trying to keep a straight face.

This is supposed to be her boss.

She doesn’t want this to get personal.

She has enough problems.

Taking care of her team leader is none of them.

Just that it now is…

“Oh, yes, that… Was a good speech, wasn’t it?” 

“If you want to think that,” Brienne huffs.

Perhaps the worst pep-talk in history, but what does it matter right now?

They somehow manage to make it up to the loft. Brienne opens the door, balancing her team leader with one arm while fumbling with the keys with the other. She lets a silent sigh of relief once the door opens. Brienne leads him inside and already means to maneuver over to the big couch to just leave him there to sleep off his intoxication, but then she hears the words she doesn't want to hear.

“Gonna be sick.”

Brienne tries hard not to cry out as she moves up to the bathroom as fast as she can, making it only just in time to haul him over to the toilet so he can revisit his drinks and whatever else he may have eaten, though that doesn’t seem to be much.

Serves him right.

Just that she also gets some on herself.

Great.

For a moment, Brienne is at a loss.

She wants to leave.

Or no, she wants to _flee_.

But can she leave him there… in _that_ state?

Jaime lets his head loll to the side, looking like death warmed over… and spit over with his own vomit, mixed with spilled beer and whiskey.

The Great Lannister Lion.

At some point Brienne was already disillusioned the first time she saw Lannister, when she signed up for the camp and he stood before them to introduce himself. She had heard the grand stories about him. All the jobs, impossible jobs he had done. About the people he saved at the risk of his own life. How he had fought entire bunches of drug dealers and other criminals all by himself. Those merry tales had roamed through any police office or agency around town. Just like the not so grand ones had made their circles, bigger and bigger each time. About how he got his byname of Kingslayer, for shooting Aerys, the Dragon, the King, in the back. But then Brienne saw this ominous Jaime Lannister for the first time, with his crooked smile, even a bit shorter than her, and all she could detect in this man was mockery and lies.

After she expected to see one of the best men the Special Forces have ever seen.

After she expected a beast.

Maybe even a monster.

But to her, he always seemed to walk with a crook, no matter how gallant and graceful his steps were.

She expected someone who stood about as high as the tales roamed, but he didn’t have any shine, just like he didn’t have the sinister aura about himself that other people assigned to him, or so she had heard before coming face-to-face with him.

At some point he seemed to be more of a mirror than an actual person, a blank.

But not the man full of glory.

Not the man full of shame.

And now, the same man is a throwing up mess.

Just where are the men from her children’s books? The knights in shining armor? The brave men who rode into battle without fear, without swords, even? And still beat the enemy? Or the stories of the good cops who always got the bad guys, who always stuck to the rules and still got the job done?

What happened to these men?

Do they even exist?

Or are they really just a fiction?

“Hey, no passing out here!” she cries out once she realizes his head slipping off the toilet seat.

“Just lemme be,” he sighs, looking not just miserable but absolutely helpless.

Yeah, fiction…

“No, you can’t pass out like that or else I can’t leave you here,” Brienne argues vehemently.

She wants to get out of here.

“Just leave me be, stubborn wench,” he growls low in his throat, which only seems to make more bile bubble up in his throat, making him gag again.

“You are under an illusion if you believe that I _want_ to be here,” Brienne tells him once more.

“Don’t use complicated words…,” he mutters, now almost mewling like a cat, his head lolling to the side again, almost dropping down. Brienne takes a hold of him to prop him back up, “Don’t pass out!”

“M tired,” he mutters, his breath coming out ragged.

“So am I…,” she mumbles. Brienne looks around the spacious bathroom. Her eyes set on the big shower.

That may be a wink of fate.

Brienne grunts as she pushes to her knees, just to grab Lannister by the back of his collar and pull him into the shower stall, against the man’s loud but sluggish protest. She makes him sit with the back to the wall before starting the water, even though she gets wet herself along the way. Lannister cries out, but then looks at her like a goldfish out of water.

Really, and that man is supposed to be a lion.

“Stop that!” he shrieks.

Brienne is glad that it seems to have the effect she hoped for, though. He is now at least halfway awake again. It’s rough treatment, maybe, and perhaps even over the top, but he made her drive him home and he threw up on her shoes, so she’s got any reason to be pissed off, right?

And after that encounter in the shower a few days back… she will roll with it for now.

“You could have decided to drink less, so bear it like a man. That’s not how I pictured my evening either,” Brienne tells him icily.

“I am your boss!” 

“Who’s just vomited on himself… and me, and who is so bloody drunk that he can’t even stand upright without drowning himself in the toilet. I don’t care for what you are in terms of hierarchy. Just shut up and sober up a bit,” Brienne retorts.

He blinks at her, the water dribbling down his face, over his emerald eyes, making them clearer but at the same time more fragmented.

Jaime’s upper body sinks forward, so Brienne is forced to get back under the drizzle and push him back by the shoulder.

He really owes her for this.

“You should go away,” he mutters weakly.

“Yeah, I should,” she sighs.

But why doesn't she?

“Then go.”

“Not until I know that you won’t drown in your own vomit.”

“What now? Do you care about me? Is that it?” he asks with a crooked grin that is distorted by the running water, though.

“I won’t have you on my list of people who died on my watch,” Brienne says with a kind of fierceness that forces his eyes back on hers, only to drop, looking ashamed, almost. “You should go.”

“You’re repeating yourself,” she says, mimicking him.

“Stubborn wench. Just leave me in my misery. I didn’t ask for this."

“No, but still I answered because I am a decent person.”

“Are you?” he huffs.

“I’m not as much of an asshole as you are,” Brienne snorts, which makes him laugh out bitterly, “That might be. I know I’m a dick.”

“Then you reached an epiphany about yourself at last,” Brienne exhales. “Why were you in that bar?”

If she spends her night like that, then at least she would like to have a reason for it.

“To drink?” he snorts. She looks at him for a long moment, before he goes on, “I think you know why I was. Because I did what all men do who spend a whole day in a bar. They try to forget.”

“What did you try to forget?” Brienne goes on asking, her voice seemingly calm enough to upset him in turn.

That booze seems to have loosened up his tongue a whole lot.

“You don’t want to know that. Remember? We don’t mix the personal and the job,” he says, licking his lips, swallowing some of the lukewarm water drizzling down on them.

“This is too personal already anyways. I am with you in a shower after you threw up on my shoes,” Brienne huffs, which makes him chuckle, “See? That’s just what I said.”

“If you think I like this, you are plainly wrong. I would rather be home – and not drenched in your apartment, holding up a drunkard to make sure he doesn’t die thanks to drinking himself to oblivion,” Brienne hisses.

“Then leave,” he hisses back.

“You are repeating yourself yet again."

“You don’t want to be here. You don't want to be close to me, trust me in this. Who’d want to have to do with the Kingslayer, hm?” he sighs, leaning his head back against the cold tiles.

“I know that story,” Brienne sighs.

Everyone does.

“Do you? Which version?” he looks at her wearily.

“ _Version_?” she repeats, knitting her eyebrows.

“Ah, right, you think that when you read something or hear something from a majority of people, it's inevitably the truth,” he grins slowly. “That’s the way history works… it’s all about whose story is repeated and written down…”

“So it isn’t the truth that you shot your own commander? In the back?” Brienne asks, narrowing her eyes.

“That _is_ the truth,” he shrugs with the kind of nonchalance that leaves her shivering.

Doesn’t that man have any shame?

“Then how is the version wrong?” 

“I don’t say it’s _wrong_. I just say there are _perspectives_ ,” he replies.

“What perspective is there to this story?” Brienne asks.

Aerys is dead, he killed him – what alternative is there?

“You don’t want to know."

“What perspective?” she insists.

“Now _you’re_ repeating yourself,” he smirks.

“What. Perspective?” Brienne snarls, fed up with this game.

It might be a game to him, but it’s not to her.

Brienne never plays games.

“The one where the great Aerys Targaryen, the Dragon, the King, the best damn undercover officer the Special Forces have ever seen, the best damn man who blew up hundreds of drug rings and dealers by infiltrating them, was… _not_ so great by the _end of his service_ ,” he says, his voice so full of anguish that it leaves Brienne with even more gooseflesh for a skin.

“What did he do?” she asks quietly.

“You won’t believe me. No one believes me. No one cares. Because it doesn't matter,” he replies, shaking his head with a smile.

A sad smile.

Anguish.

“What did he do?” Brienne asks, feeling a chill run through her bones.

“Do you want to know? Do you want to mix personal and job, hm? Surely fits… you never listen to my advices, stubborn wench you are,” he sighs.

“Tell me,” she says. Jaime takes a long moment before he speaks up again, “You know… If you dive too deep, it… changes you, or maybe… just brings your true self to the surface? I don’t know. I never bothered to ask either. It’s just… he dived too deep, way too deep.”

“What did he do?”

“He consumed what he fought, he fought what he consumed… until it consumed him… He got madder and madder and _madder_ and… he got obsessed with fire for some fucked up reason. Played around with his stupid lighter all the while. I wanted to snatch that thing from him each time and smash it against a wall. He was no longer the man I once served. No longer the man who made us vow to him, and whom we vowed to…”

“You mean… did he take drugs?” Brienne asks, trying her best to keep her voice levelled.

“We’ll never know. That is not part of the official version,” he huffs. “But I saw the bloodshot eyes… he looked like those we took into custody more often than it should take anyone to notice… but no one did… curious.”

“What happened the day you shot him?” 

“You tell me. What did it say in the reports?”

“You were supposed to free hostages, in a gas station. You moved in, only your team… You seemingly got it under control, but the other teams were supposed to wait until they’d get the go from Aerys. It didn’t come. At some point shots were fired. A second team moved in, led by Eddard Stark. They found Aerys’ men with the hostages… and you and him in a private room, where there also laid the boss of the hostage takers, after either one of you shot him. Aerys Targaryen was dead, too. Shot in the back. The caliber was identified as coming from your gun,” Brienne recounts.

“Right… well, it’s not wrong, really. It all states the truth,” he chuckles, amused, but sad.

“But the perspective…”

“Ah, right, you pay attention, that’s good… the _perspective_ is that Aerys moved up to the office on his own… and I went after him, fearing he’d get himself killed… or get us killed, should I rather say? We wanted to secure the hostages first. That would have been our task, but he went to the office…,” he says, his mouth pulled into a grimace Brienne cannot read. It looks mocking, but sad, angry but resigned.

It’s all and nothing at the same time.

“Does it say in the reports that he was as high as the Wall when he was on that job? I suppose not…”

Brienne blinks.  

“Does it say in the reports that he had poured gasoline he’s grabbed from the gas station where they held the hostages over the man as he was about to die from the wound he’s gotten him? That he’s only shot him in the belly to see him bleed out and set him on fire then? That he had poured a nice trail all the way from the room where we had the hostages to the office and was about to drop his bloody lighter in the gasoline? That he wanted to burn the last bit of life out of that man in front of him? Wildfire, he called it, like the drugs he was so fond of… That he yelled that he’d set us all on fire? That we’d all burn together?”

Brienne just stares at him, hearing the faint drizzle of the water, but not feeling it on her skin.

“Why didn’t you report him? If you knew that he was taking drugs?” she manages to ask.

“You don’t snitch on your commander, easy as that. That’s what we were taught. That’s what he made us vow, as his team, as our leader… You are a team. You keep each other safe. You keep each other’s secrets… your life for his…”

He lets out a small cough to clear his throat, his eyes moving around frantically.

“I believed in that man, for a while… well, and then I called him upon it, upon shooting himself to the moon with a bit of Wildfire, short before _the little accident_ … he’s said that if I ever dared to say anything to anyone, he’d find my family and kill each and every one, _slowly_. That he’s had friends to do that… then you just… keep your mouth shut… because you know he can,” he mutters.

“So, on that day…”

“I either would have shot him or he may have managed to set all of us on fire, if not worse. It seemed that he’d done more than just to sprinkle some gasoline around… While we had been busy with securing the situation and the hostages, he had positioned any canister of what could possibly burn in the hallway near to where we had the people… He wanted to take us with him. He said the fire would cleanse us. He already had the lighter out…”

Brienne just looks at him.

“So yeah, I shot him. Right in the back, after he’d turned to the man to set him on fire. By the time he hit the ground and I had kicked the lighter into a corner far away from any gasoline… I just sat down and waited… Shortly thereafter Ned Stark and his team moved up and… well, the case was pretty clear. Who if not Lannister would have shot him? Lannisters are greedy people after all. Stark was so full of himself. So I gave him what he wanted. What they all wanted. What did it matter? The fact was this: I killed him, from behind. He didn’t see it coming. I sat down in that office’s desk, twisted in it… and waited… until they came. I knew they’d come. I knew they’d come and see. And judge. The little wolves,” he says through gritted teeth. “The sheep.”

“If what you say is true, then why didn’t you say anything? Why is that not in the official report?”

“Because it’s in the _classified_ one. We wouldn’t want to stain such a legacy, would we?”

“Why didn’t you insist?” Brienne questions, which only makes him laugh sadly, “Because I wouldn’t give this fucker Stark the satisfaction of having me repeat and attest my innocence. He’s not to judge me, the bloody wolf. By what right does the wolf judge the lion?”

Brienne just stares at him.

No hero.

No monster.

Full of anguish.

Pain.

Regret.

Hatred.

Consumed.

Shaded.

Simply human.

A broken human being.

“What? Have I rendered you speechless, wench? Aren’t you going to say anything? Doesn't that drive you off at last? Isn’t this personal enough by now?” he barks. Brienne just keeps looking at him.

Sapphire fades into emerald.

“Because I didn’t feel sorry. Still don’t. I regret that I didn’t shoot that fucker sooner. How does that sounds? Are we leaving yet? Isn’t that what you’d want to see in me? All broken down so that you can feel better about yourself?” he taunts her.  

Brienne just keeps looking at him.

“Doesn’t that make you angry? Doesn't that make you judge me even more than you do anyways? Because I know you do. You all do. I know _that look_.”

He shakes his head, droplets smacking against the glass of the shower.

“To think that I used to range among the very best… still do, as far as skill goes… but now? I’m just the traitor. The Kingslayer. So they found it fine to withdraw me from service for a while and eventually brought me back, to train teams instead, hoping that I’d drop out eventually. Fat Robert and Old Wolf Stark probably had their dear fun giving me worse and worse recruits every damn time.”

He lets out a ragged breath, fire in his eyes.

“I still think he sent his son there only just to piss me off. Well, Stark probably didn’t think I’d follow through with it to piss back and train the lad anyway,” he says with a sad smile. “If they think I don’t understand that if they send me Octopus for just that reason, too. The boy who _has_ enough talent to earn himself a spot, but who’s still just his bastard father’s son, the little traitor, Balon Grey-No-Joy. Or little Griffin Shit. That guy’s record is a mess… or the Hulk who’s too dumb for everything. They don’t just want to see the team fail, they want to see me giving up.”

Brienne swallows.

“If I didn’t know better, I’d say that they also sent you in because they wanted to piss at my damned tree. A woman, and _what_ a woman. How would it be any different with a dour head like yours in it, right?” he grins at her lazily.

The words of accusation don’t even reach her. They all dribble down along with the water still raining down on them.

“Was that why you were at the bar? To forget that – _again_?” she questions.

The constant reminder looking in his face every day – that the department wants him gone.

That he isn’t wanted.

“It came back, that’s the thing… I wanted it to disappear to where I had left it. You go away inside, that’s it…,” he mutters, his eyes distant again.

“Then what brought this back up?”

“Aren’t you fed up yet?” he asks, looking at her again, seemingly surprised that she didn't turn around and leave yet.

And to be honest, Brienne is surprised herself.

“What brought this back up?” she asks once more.

“I don't have to tell you,” he argues.

“What brought this back up?”

“You are repeating yourself, wench,” he grunts.

“What…?” Brienne means to say once more, to which he rolls his eyes in annoyance. “I give up… do you know my father?”

“Tywin Lannister. He owns one of the largest companies in all of Westeros.” Brienne nods slowly. “He has a lot of political influence. He is the main sponsor for the department.”

“Correct. Did you also know that he’s one giant pain in the ass?” Jaime grins.

“Family trait?” she huffs.

“Good one… he disowned me today,” he blurts out saying.

“Why?”

“Because he gave me an ultimatum. Thought that I’d finally quit service after I made myself such a disgrace… _Such_ a disgrace… He agreed that, to keep my reputation _slightly_ intact, it’d be best to stick around a while longer, to shut up the people who say that I shot dear Aerys out of malice. If Special Forces keep me, there is no reason, right? Just that there _is_ … In any case… I got this _wonderful_ present from him, delivered right to my door. The most magnificent gun I’ve ever seen in my life…”

He shakes his head, licking water from his lip pensively.

“So I called him… he’s said that this was a _retirement present_ , and for joining the family business soon. I told him pretty much to go ahead fuck himself… Fathers usually don’t take that kindly, in case you didn’t know… And this time, he _meant_ it when he disowned me. He said I’m no longer his son. No longer a Lannister. And yeah, that brought up some not so pleasant memories I hoped to leave at the bottom of a good glass of Scotch. Or ten. Or twenty…,” he mutters, the words pouring out of him like the water pours down on him.

“Who am I now? Just the Kingslayer? If I’m not even a Lannister…,” he goes on, muttering more to himself than to Brienne. He looks at her blearily. “Are you fed up at last? Like all of them are?”

Brienne says nothing, but that only seems to get his anger flaring, “Why are you not talking?! Why don’t you just curse and leave, wench?!”

She tilts her head at him, unimpressed.

“Oh wait, how about that detail: I fucked my fuckin’ sister, my twin sister!” he almost curses at her, trying to bring Brienne to react in the way he anticipates.

But she doesn’t. She just feels the faint dribbling over the water down her body and the anguish he emits in giant waves.

“My father _knows_ that, even if he doesn’t say – and he didn’t disown me for it. But for _this_? He disowns me. I fucked my sister and no one cared. And then he arranged a marriage with Robert fuckin’ Baratheon of all people, and my sister willed into the marriage not because she cares a single fuck about him, but just because he has the position he has and she always wanted to be First Lady or whatever. I fucked her and I loved her and she called me and she kept texting me even when we were in the Dragonpit. That’s the person you overheard me talking to, by the way… and the woman you saw on your run… She suddenly wanted to get back together, if in all secret. No one has to know, right? She’s frustrated that her dear husband is all I warned her him to be, glancing up any damn woman’s skirt, always on the job, and with zero interest in her. She’s unhappy, she said. She regrets it, she told me. As if fuckin’ me would fix that…”

Brienne doesn’t know what to make of that, at all.

“She thinks I can just go on with this, with us, this secret… Even with the entire Kingslayer affair. You should think that she called then. She didn’t. She doesn't care. No one cares. No one ever cares. It’s never about perspective. Just about what’s in the papers, in the reports… the rest didn’t happen. The rest doesn't matter. It doesn’t matter that I sacrificed everything to know my family safe. It doesn't matter that I shot a dragon with forked tongue who wanted to kill people. It only mattered that I shot my commander…,” he says, licking his lips.

The anger and sadness bleeds out of him through invisible wounds.

“And the only thing that kept him safe even in death was the position he had, because he comes from the _family of families_. It doesn’t matter that I loved her. Nothing of this shit matters. _We_ don’t matter… The years I spent refining my skills, the years I spent risking my life to serve the city, the country, even, the years I spent being that man’s hand in the belief that he’d not just take me to the top but help me surpass myself. All for nothing. The years I spent as the Golden Knight, as the Golden Lion of the Lannister Empire, who could be as cocky as he wanted because no one ever dared question his abilities. But they do now. They whisper now. Behind my back, I know. They judge. They judge you for what they want to see in you, not for who you are… They now just see me for the disgrace I am, my own family included,” he says, gritting his teeth, before looking at her with a lopsided smile, “Yeah, and that’s what I tried to drown in alcohol. Crucify me.”

Brienne purses her lips, leaning back on her heels to reach for the faucet.

The water stops raining down on them.

The world itself seems to stand still for a bare moment.

“So? Enough reality right in your face yet, wench? Are you finally fed up enough to leave me the hell alone and in my own misery?” he barks angrily, leaning forward, only inches from her face, the smell of Scotch heavy in the moist air. “Say something already!”

“… Are you done?” she replies simply.

Jaime looks at her quizzically, drawing back slightly. That was a reaction he didn't expect. 

“So that is what it’s all about?” 

“Is that… Did you listen to a word I just said?” he looks at her, still stunned.

He knew her to be an odd bird, really, but he just came clean about… everything in his life. About what he friggin’ did with his friggin’ sister. And _that_ is all she asks?

“I don’t say the revelations about Aerys’ death aren’t shocking. I think they _are_ … just like… the _rest_ , but…,” she replies.

Shocking is no proper word to describe it, but there is another feeling that sweeps through her much harder right at this moment.

“But?”

“I didn’t take you for so craven, simple as that.”

“Craven?!” he cries out.

He’s never been called _that_.

 _Craven_.

“You escape your problems by trying to drown them at the bottom of a Scotch bottle. _That’s_ craven. You hide it behind your smug smile instead of making an effort to make people see the truth. You gave in. That’s craven. Instead of trying to ‘piss’ back at Robert Baratheon or Eddard Stark who gave you bad recruits and little leash, you gave up, you still give up. Instead of proving them wrong by making them the very best team the department has ever seen. That’s craven. So could you stop being sorry for yourself and stop complaining about how horrible your life is?” she retorts. “You sound like a bloody woman.”

Jaime still looks at her, stunned.

“You say you’re a disgrace _now_. Do you have even the slightest idea to be one for _all_ your life, _no_ matter what you do? No matter how hard you try to get peoples’ approval? To get people to look at you without a cocky grin? I have been looked down at. I have had people sneer at me for all my life. I didn’t ever have people taking me for my skills or for who I am, _ever_. I always had people call me names behind my back _and_ to my face. People like _you_. People like the team. I am ugly, I know that. I always had people affirm that for me. I was more of a boy than a girl. I know all these things. I know what it’s like to be a disgrace. In fact, I don’t even know how it’s like _not_ to be one in the eyes of other people. You had at least a few years of glory. I never did, and won’t ever,” she snarls at him, gripping him by the collar angrily.

“Oh, so that’s it. Poor big little girl feeling hurt at a few japes at her expenses,” he huffs, looking around sluggishly. “Tarth, if you can’t take that on the job, then you joined the wrong profession.”

“I _can_ take crap from other people, I have for all my life. In contrast to you, I _grew up_ with this. What bugs me is that you are supposed to train me, _us_ , to make us improve, but you have no better to do than take out your personal frustration over yourself on us. You treat us like toys. And once you get bored, you can toss us away, hand us over to the next team leader, and go on being pissed at the world for treating you unkindly,” Brienne snarls. “Well, welcome to the real world then.”

“Which is why you still care to take me home?” he huffs.

“I told you, I’m a decent person, that’s why. I try my best to stick to the words you indoctrinate us with. Seemingly against better judgment.”

So much to teamwork – even that from “back in his days”.

She should have known.

“Against better judgment?” he repeats with a frown.

“You don’t believe a single word of what you say. So why would we believe you? Ever crossed your mind?” she retorts. “You should only demand from other people what you are capable of yourself. If you can’t even make yourself believe your words, then how are we supposed to have faith in them? In you?”

“No one asks you to,” he argues. “I told you.”

“No, but I _want_ to,” she hisses, her voice slightly shaking.

Jaime looks at her, stunned once more, his emerald eyes gleaming wetly. 

“I _want_ to believe in this or else I wouldn’t be working my ass off, knowing that no one gives a damn on me and thinks me incapable of… everything,” she tells him. “I _have to_ believe in these things. If I didn’t, this whole thing would be pointless. And I can’t let this be pointless. For that I’ve sacrificed too much for this already. But if my own team leader gives a damn on it, then what am I supposed to believe in? Why do you do what you say Aerys did to you by making us promise to you, if it’s all empty promises to you anyways?”

She waits, waits for a reply, but he can’t even look at her, only to eventually mumble, “I… have no answer to that.”

Brienne growls, pulling him up by the collar once more, their faces almost touching, their eyes colliding. 

Great.

She drops something like that to her team leader of all people.

Her drunk team leader no less.

“Whatever,” she huffs, meaning to pull away again, but he speaks up, “I mean I… I never thought about it like that."

Brienne blinks at him, her grip loosening up a bit. 

This is either a case of “I’m so drunk that I’m just talking nonsense” or… “I’m so drunk I speak the truth for once”.

If only she was better at reading people.

Brienne whirls around, not wanting to look him in the eye anymore, finding a stack of towels. She takes one of the large ones to toss at Lannister. Only once it smacks him in the face does she realize yet again that he is nowhere close to sober.

Though that he starts to giggle makes her certain that she didn’t manage to hurt him with a vicious towel. She takes one for herself to dry her face and the body parts that got wet while holding Lannister upright, which are more than she’d hoped.

“Did I get you wet…,” he means to taunt, but she interrupts him harshly, “Finish the sentence and I will drown you in the toilet.”

“I wanna see you try,” he chuckles.

Brienne nudges him forward and out of the bathroom. She can spot the even more spacious bedroom to forcefully push Lannister into as he now decides that all of this is incredibly funny yet again.

Because, to him, it probably is just that after all – a joke.

She pushes him down on the giant bed, only to let out a yelp as he manages to hook his arm around her waist to pull her along with him. Brienne tries to sit up and brush him off, but Lannister holds on.

“Let go, or else I will break not just your nose,” she hisses.

“Prude.”

Brienne slaps his arm away at last, feeling the heat in her cheeks.

“Do that just one more time and you’ll lose the limb,” she threatens.

“I get clingy when drunk, don’t mind me,” he sighs, leaning back on the bed.

Brienne exhales in frustration as she gets back up, “Sleep off your hangover, and try not to throw up on yourself, because I won’t clean you up unless you choke on it.”

“That means you’ll stay?” He blinks at her, with an expression Brienne cannot read.

“That means I will take the couch and check a few times if you are still breathing.”

“Why are you?” he asks in a small voice this time.

“Because you are my team leader.”

“I told you, didn’t I? You shouldn’t try to get friendly with…”

“This is _not_ getting friendly. This is first aid. _I’m required to_. _Nothing special there_ , Lannister,” she says, echoing his words – and he seems to realize that, with a bit of shock if she is not mistaken.

“ _That_ is the amount of teamwork you earned yourself through training us,” Brienne goes on. “Congratulations, one of your team doesn’t let you choke on your own vomit. Great achievement right there.”

“That’s more than I ever expected.”

“Well, and doesn’t _that_ make you pessimistic?”

“You enjoy firing my own words back at me, huh?” He grins at her slowly.

“I don't enjoy this,” Brienne insists.

“You tell yourself,” he sighs, his head rolling back on the bed, glancing at the ceiling. “But y’know, just repeating words after people comes close to not having an opinion of your own… or not daring to state your own…”

“What if that was so?” she huffs.

“You only make it difficult on others to read you,” he says slowly. “And that’s dangerous for you, on a mission. Not being able to read others is one thing, not letting others read you to a certain degree… can easily backfire on you. I know _that_ from experience. And you should have enough self-worth not to do that, Tarth.”

Brienne frowns at him.

“Don't get yourself killed,” he says. “Alright?”

“Sleep.”

“Don’t get yourself killed.”

“Sleep.”

"Don't die."

"Sleep."

“I’m sorry about your loss.”

“ _Sleep_.”

And so he does.


	5. Curse Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An awkward morning after...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone! Thanks for sticking around, for commenting, and kudoing. You are such a kind readership! ♥
> 
> So yeah, I hope you'll enjoy this chapter!
> 
> Much love! ♥♥♥

Brienne wakes up to the sensation of the sun tickling her nose.

Followed by a pain creeping up her back to her hairline.

And protesting arms.

And a strange feeling that she is somewhere where she shouldn’t be.

Her eyes open wide at once.

She is… in Lannister’s apartment.

On his couch.

“Fuck.”

Brienne wanted to leave some hours after making sure that he wouldn’t get himself killed, but she must have fallen asleep on the couch.

“Fuck.”

Brienne scrambles to her feet, scanning the room for the exit, almost stumbling over the couch table in the process.

“Tarth?” a voice calls out, _his_ voice calls out.

“ _Fuck_.”

She whirls around to see Lannister standing there, hair still unkempt and clothes all wrinkly, but still like he was cut out of a quality movie, the light dancing over his hair… Nevermind.

“I… am on the go,” Brienne manages to say, the words suddenly catching up in her throat.

But why?

She should be in the superior position now, right?

Why isn’t he the one trying to flee?

Why does he stand there, looking at her with wide eyes, sure, but still… with the kind of relaxation Brienne envies him so much for?

 _Fuck_.

“Tarth, can we… can we please take a moment to… _talk_?” he asks peaceably.

And he seems so different yet again. Sober, and no hint of the snark she’d expect from him right at this moment.

“I really should…,” she means to say, but he interrupts her, “ _Brienne_.”

The name resonates in her entire body, making her involuntarily shudder.

What?

Not once did he call her by her first name ever since they met.

“ _Please_ , just… a moment,” he goes on, licking his lips. “One moment, is all I’m asking.”

“… Okay,” Brienne finds herself reply, her body unmoving.

If she can’t move, she might just as well hear him out, right?

“Thank you,” he begins, stepping closer. “You will now hear something I usually don’t do.”

“And what is that?” she asks defiantly.

“I am apologizing.”

Brienne just keeps staring.

Wait… _what_?

“Under _no_ premise is one of my team members supposed to see me the way you had to deal with me yesterday night. While I don't remember all of it, the _highlights_ are enough to know that this _never_ should have happened,” he goes on to explain, running his long fingers through his unkempt golden curls. “I didn't expect you back at that bar – and while that’s no excuse, I never planned on this. Regardless, it never should have happened. Those were things you weren’t supposed to see or hear. So I… apologize.”

He shakes his head, stepping closer once more, but Brienne cannot move. She is too busy staring. Until a moment ago, she would have placed a bet over a thousand dragons that there was no way in the Seven Hells that Jaime Lannister would apologize for anything, ever. That guy prides himself with not being sorry, for not regretting anything, or so it seems.

But then again… he also didn’t seem like the guy who’d carry around with him the secrets he admitted to her in the shower.

Which reminds Brienne: _Gods_ , that shower moment happened. That will haunt her till the end of her of her life, if not beyond.

“I hope that we can move past this and continue with a sort of professional… relationship,” he then says.

Brienne can’t help but snort at this – and to her surprise, he snorts, too.

“Yeah, sounds grand from the man who vowed to make you hate him, and who does anything to achieve just that, I know,” Jaime says, verbalizing her thoughts exactly. “But I do mean it. I… _mean_ it.”

And strangely, she finds herself believing him as she looks him right in the eye.

“Can I ask you a question?”

“After what you had to take up yesterday night, I suppose I owe you more than one answer, so… sure, go ahead,” Jaime replies with a shrug of his shoulders.

“… Why would you… want it to continue?” Brienne asks before she can even think, the words just dribbling out of her. “If you don’t want to keep the team. If you don’t care. If it’s all just chicanery on Robert Baratheon’s and Eddard Stark’s behalf in your opinion? If it’s all just a liability to you? If it’s all futile anyways – according to you. Why still bother?”

That was one of the thoughts that kept running circles inside Brienne’s head as she laid on the couch, staring at the ceiling before she dozed off from exhaustion. If what he said last night is true, then there is really no reason for him to stay in the department. He has no support there and is not granted to do his job alright.

Why didn’t he leave yet, though?

Why does he stay?

Why does he keep going?

“I knew this was going to bite me in the ass,” he exhales with a small smile, but it vanishes quickly. “Just why do people always take everything I say so literally?”

“What now? Didn't you mean that either?”

“I _did_ mean it, but… but especially _you_ are one of those candidates who takes every damn word I say literally,” he exhales, running his hands through his golden hair. “How about we sit down?”

Brienne’s mouth falls open for a moment as he makes his way over to the couch and settles down beside her. She lets out a shaky breath as she settles down as well, their knees brushing against each other briefly, her shoulders tensing to the point that they hurt.

This is not normal.

This is not… how it should be.

This is not how they wrote it in the application.

“Perhaps the weirdest debriefing known to humankind, but oh well, I suppose this whole situation is fucked up beyond repair anyways, so why not?” he says with a smile Brienne can’t really read. It seems familiar, but then again it doesn’t. “Do you want to hear it still?”

She nods quickly.

If only he knew…

Brienne needs to know, that’s the thing. It’s not that she _wants_ to hear it, she _needs_ to hear it.

Because after what he said in the club, it seemed all for nothing and… it can’t be for nothing.

Please.

Not after Goodwin died.

After that was the last big deed he did for her.

It can’t be for nothing.

Please. Please. Please.

“Well, I think I made it clear enough last night that I was… over the top in being a miserable pain in the ass back in the Dragonpit. You wouldn’t know because you are too much of a good person, but once you incorporate being an asshole into your daily routine, it’s hard to stop, especially if the ex keeps calling… Seven Hells, I _did_ tell you about that, too, didn’t I?”

Again, Brienne can do nothing much but give a hasty nod. In fact it seems that her body is capable of nothing else at this point. Just… nodding.

Just listening.

Jaime has to try hard not to let out a strangled laugh at that. He told his recruit of all people. He told anyone. Just like that. Something that never travelled past his lips in years got spilled in a shower over Scotch and water.

Way to go.

_Way to go._

“Cat got your tongue?” he teases anyway when she doesn’t reply.

“You did… tell me,” she exhales shakily. He lets out a hollow, bellowed kind of laughter that makes her cringe.

If only she had as much confidence in – if very awkward – having proper conversation with other people as she does when in the field.

Brienne doesn’t know if she could sit next to someone after she admitted something similar to her as Jaime did last night. But then again… that is seemingly Jaime Lannister through and through.

“Fuck,” he mutters to himself, shaking his head, but then has his smirk back in place as he goes on, “Well, what was done can’t be undone. But that’s not… the matter, and most definitely not what I should be discussing with you. Anyways, with regards to what I said in the bar… I _did_ mean what I said, but I see that maybe I should have said it a little differently… in fact, I should’ve said it a whole lot of differently. When you are considered the monster and are so accustomed to playing it, you just somehow tend to forget how to act like a normal, decent human being.”

Brienne just sits there, kneading her knuckles.

In some strange way, she can actually relate to that. When she was still a young child, she was actually rather girlish. Brienne liked toy ponies and even dolls, danced down the hallways of Evenfall Hall as though she was a ballerina. Until her nanny broke it to her that she was making herself ridiculous because Brienne didn’t understand that people weren’t laughing _with_ her, but _at_ her, or so Septa Roelle told her. After that, Brienne made it more of a virtue, behaved like a boy, replaced pony posters with wooden swords and football posters, signed up for karate courses instead of rhythmic gymnastics and stopped trying to be something she is not and simply let it wash over her when people called her upon acting like a boy.

“Back at the club, I meant to tell you that you should be _cautious_ about trying to get friendly with _all_ of your team mates, in the futile hope that this will make you better comrades in the field. That’s not how it works. Making it personal in that way is perhaps just as bad as making it personal in the way we did… last night,” Jaime goes on to explain.

He made it personal, with Aerys. And that meant his downfall.

“You shouldn’t invest too much because that means you could lose more than you can afford.”

Why is his tone so different now?

Why do the words sound different now?

Back in the Dragonpit, they were shattering, but now… not so much. And Brienne doesn't know just how many faces that man seems to hide from her still.

“I always give a hundred percent,” she insists.

“And _that’s_ the issue here. I know people like you, Tarth, you always give not just a hundred percent, but another ten on tops. And you’ll only end up getting hurt for it, trust me in this,” Jaime says.

That’s what he did. His life for the team, his life for his commander. He invested all and lost everything.

It’s like looking into a mirror, not for matters of the looks, to be sure, but Jaime sees something akin when he looks at her, and it scares him, it scared him from Day One onward.

Because she has steel in her spine and doesn’t seem to concern herself with the possibility that even steel can burst under pressure.

Or melt in the Wildfire.  

“So what? Were the things you said to me supposed to _protect_ me?” Brienne blinks at him.

He can’t be serious, can he?

“That’s my job, so _yes_ ,” Jaime snaps, suddenly even more serious. “My job is to keep you all safe, whether I like you guys or not, whether you are miserable pains in my ass or not. That’s what I am to do. And make no mistake to doubt me in that one regard. I take that _very_ seriously.”

No matter what he is called behind his back or to his face, Jaime is certain of that one thing – he fulfills his duty in that regard with all means available to him.

“But _this_ is different from… keeping someone safe on a mission.”

Keeping the team safe on a mission is not the same as… what he says he meant to protect her from.

And anyways, Brienne can protect herself about alright. She always did.

Always.

“It’s _not_. You think that building up a significant relationship with all of your teammates will help you on the job, but what if it doesn’t – and you continue to have blind faith in it that it will, if only you try hard enough, if only you insist long enough, if only you stick around long enough? Then you’ll be the first one earning yourself a trip to the hospital, or the morgue,” Jaime replies. “ _That’s_ what I’m protecting you from by bursting that bubble for you. I know it sucks, but… it’s still better to get a verbal smackdown than a round of bullets between your big blue eyes.”

His muttered words of her not being supposed not to die short before he fell asleep echo inside Brienne’s mind, which makes his words just now ring incredibly truer.

“So you want us to be a team but tell me at the same time not to try to become a member of that team?”

That just doesn’t make any sense.

“I teach you lessons about teamwork and how to work with people who don't want to play according to the rules, because the plain reality is that not everyone who is on a team is a teammate.”

“That still doesn’t answer the question. Why do you bother? If you want to give up that team?” Brienne asks.

She has to ask.

She has to get an answer.

She needs it.

“I don’t _want_ to give up the team. If I wanted to give up, I would have done so years ago and would work in my father’s office so not to be the disgrace he sees in me to the point that he disowns me. I wouldn’t take shit from Robert and Ned if it wasn’t about making a point. I don't care about what they may think of me. I only care about that job. No matter what they say and no matter what limits they set for me by not letting me do my job outright, selecting the members for me and all that, I am good at my job, and I could be excellent at making magnificent teams out of you all. So do I want to give up the team? No. The issue is that this team is the ultimate proof that they just roll the dice to get me to drop out – and I have reached a point where this is no longer just ridiculous, but reckless.”

Two BFFs who likely have friendship rings and hence only care about themselves and each other, a snotty, arrogant pretty boy who thinks he knows everything and is in some other regard way too much like Jaime in his younger years likewise, and Dumb and Dumber. Even if they have talent and meet the requirements, those are characters you don’t toss together in a team, but of course… no one asks Jaime on those matters now, not after Aerys.

Kingslayers don’t have the right to _be_ right regardless of the fact that they are still good at their jobs no matter the _crimes_ committed.

“Oh.”

Until yesterday night, Brienne wouldn’t have dared to believe it possible that either Robert Baratheon or Eddard Stark were even capable of such a thing, she heard the stories about them, already at the academy, but… why would Jaime lie about the matter now?

“But since I can’t just quit or send the recruits I can’t even look in the eye back, unstamped and with a bow on top, the least I can do is to make sure that while you are at it, neither one of you ends up getting killed. I can train you, even if singularly or within small groups. It’s not ideal, but I can do that, and I will. Because this is not about who gets to make a group presentation. Your lives depend on it that you receive the best training possible. And if there is one thing I am good at, then it’s training people. I’ve learned that over the years.”

“So you have no faith in the team?”

“At this point, I have any reason to doubt that this bunch will get it together. Especially with the Hulk and little Griffin Shit in it. I know their records. I see them interact with the rest of the group. I’ve seen the likes of them before, a lot of them. They are far from unique. I see a slight bit of a chance if it were just you and the three youngsters, but those two? Forget about them.”

“They are part of the team,” Brienne argues. “It doesn’t matter that… we don’t get along…”

After all, didn’t he just say that you don’t have to be friends with your teammates so long you work together well?

“And what a great part of the team they are. _That’s_ why you are supposed to dissect them, figure them out, and roll with it, you see? Count on yourself and look after yourself. Or even better… just forget about it all,” Jaime goes on.

“You want me to drop out?!” Brienne shrieks, unable to hold back the shock.

“I think you’d be better off with another team, yes,” he nods.

Brienne shakes her head, feeling dizzy.

And for a moment, yet again, the fool she is, she had believed that…

“Oh, so _that’s_ it. You think I’m not good enough to –”

“– No, that’s _not_ it,” he corrects her.

“What is it, then? You say I should drop out. You say that I shouldn’t even bother to try to work with the others as a team. You say it’s all for nothing, you say…”

“ _I_ say that because I think _you_ are _way_ too good to be wasting your time with that bunch of fuckboys.”

Brienne feels as though someone just slapped her across the face.

Hard.

“Y, you… _what_?”

“Oh, that got you by surprise, huh?” he huffs with a satisfied grin.

Brienne purses her lips, still trying to process what he just said – and seemingly also meant.

“You are perhaps the only one I would have recruited if they had left me a choice in the whole business. You are strong, you make one hell of a sniper if you don’t go into tunnel-mode. You have ambition – but for the sake of the team and not just for titles and glory. You are stubborn, so it’s tough to shape you, I’ll grant you that, but you have a promising basis. And that’s why you are definitely wasting your time in my opinion, because you landed your ass in Team Lannister, and Team Lannister is the loser team, always, thanks to Big Bad Wolf and the Fat Stag.”

Brienne, yet again, can do nothing but look at him.

“Tarth, I tell you that because this team, frankly speaking, is a pile of shit. And you can now go ahead and waste your time and effort trying to color that piece of shit of a team golden, but in the end, it’ll remain a piece of shit. So yes, if you knew what’s good for you, you’d look out for another group, another team. You are young, you can afford that bit of a breather – and start over,” he says, leaving Brienne blinking once more.

And if Jaime was a truly honest person, he would probably admit to her that he has been looking out for other teams for her already, if only to get her out of the team that seems already lost before it ever came about. But thank the Seven that he is not.

“But if I… if I am what you say, then… then why do you keep saying these things to me during training? Why do you push me so much?” she can’t help but ask.

This has to be a joke again.

He can’t mean for it that she is… better than the others… that’s not…

“Because it’s still my task to train you. You are already on a very high level, so in order to push you, I have to be extra-hard on you. With the others, Hulk and Griffin Shit… and Octopus most of the time… they often fail already at the basic tasks, so they don’t need much pushing. I may be a dick, but I know how to train people, Tarth. I’ve done that for a good number of years – with actually a lot of success. Aerys, before he…,” he stops, licking his lips once before carrying on. “ _In the beginning of my work under him_ , he taught us exactly how to compose teams. He taught us how to train recruits, to raise the next generation of Special Forces. And for all the shit I got from him later on, he taught us that one thing well.”

To well, indeed.

It was like playing the violin in absolute perfection for as long as it lasted.

The selection, the try-outs, figuring who’d best work with whom, forming, shaping, reshaping, creating something where there once was nothing – it was the greatest symphony.

You made your vow, again and again, until you believed it from the bottom of your heart.

Until you got pushed into breaking that oath, but back then? The song was oh so sweet that you could get lost in it.

Because you eventually got lost in it indeed.

“I’ve watched you, and I have seen that this is the best way to tease the right reactions out of you that it takes to make you better. That is how I bring you to excel. You don’t need someone to pet your ego. Especially not for as long as you are in a group that still takes most of the praise I _do_ give you for me trying to make you the teacher’s pet. You don’t need them to be jealous of you on tops of everything. It’s better if they believe you not as praised but have to recognize you for your skills once you ram your knee into them in combat.”

The words just keep dancing before Brienne, not passing her brain, not even her skin.

“Like it or not, wench, but you are a lot like me during my younger years,” he says with a small grin.

“I’m not like you,” she shakes her head, feeling offended.

“Not in all aspects, I grant you, but I used to be stubborn, I used to be idealistic, I used to believe in a team and a team leader not very deserving of the devotion I put in either one. I invested a whole lot, not just in that team or the team leader, but the job, the personal life. I let it all blur together. I made some pretty bad choices in life. You got some of the highlights yesterday. I wasted a whole lot of time and energy on things not worth it. And when I look at you, I see me, short before I made some pretty darn stupid decisions in life,” Jaime tells her.

Is he… seriously trying to protect her, she wonders?

Her, as a person, that is?

Brienne never had that, really, aside from Goodwin and her family.

But that can’t be…

“What makes me _pessimistic_ is that I know people like you, pig-headed stubborn and idealistic past the point of sense, because _I_ used to be _just_ that – and that people like you are so damn set on achieving what they set out for themselves, sacrificing all of their time and effort for people who don’t deserve it, at all, even if that means they give up on everything else. Even good chances of having it easier, having it better. Because people like you think they only fail if they don't manage what they first set out for themselves instead of taking a step back, starting over, and simply giving that hole they are about to fall into a wide berth. Because people like you always want to jump over that hole instead,” he tells her. “Even if you risk falling right in.”

And Brienne can’t see a lie in it.

“You waste your valuable time, effort, and talent for folks that aren’t worth it, won’t ever appreciate it, and who don’t deserve it.”

Why toss all of that good into that deep pit of no return? Jaime tried – and it didn't get him much of anything.

“But what if they do?” Brienne insists. Jaime lets out a sigh, “ _That’s_ what I’m talking about. Pig-headed stubborn wench you are. Does the Hulk deserve it? Does the little Griffin Shit who’s only up to bitching? Do I? Get real, Tarth.”

Leave the sinking ship while you still can – why is that so damn hard for people to understand?

“Maybe.”

“What now?” he looks at her.

“Robb is a great mediator between the team members. He keeps calm in most situations. He is easy to get along with. Loras excels at anything concerning speed and agility. He’s loyal to those he considers worth his loyalty. Theon’s also fast – and very good with the gun. I don’t know him much, but he is loyal to Robb. If Robb’s loyal to the team, then so is he. Hyle is strong, very strong. He is… simple… and… and follows people’s lead. So if he followed the right person, then maybe… and Ronnet… he… is good at undercover work. He is… smart… and opportunistic… And you… well…”

“What? Don’t tell me that you see anything in me – you can’t mean that with any kind of sincerity after what just happened a few hours back,” he huffs. “Not after what you learned about me – in perhaps the most pitiful fashion known to humankind.”

“I dare to have hope.”

“In _me_? Don’t be foolish.”

You don’t have hope for the hopeless.

“I simply have hope,” Brienne says, her voice no more than a whisper.

“ _Hope_ …,” Jaime shakes his head, blowing the word out as though he was trying to taste it with his mouth. “More likely wishful thinking.”

“I want to try, at least,” Brienne argues.

“See? You don’t ever take my advices – but you take my words for granted,” he shakes his head. “You want to jump that hole, don’t you?”

“I’m not the one to run away, ever.”

“Yeah, I’ve witnessed,” Jaime huffs.

He looks her deep in the eye, his gaze so intense that the hairs on Brienne’s neck stand upright.

“So I can’t convince you?” he goes on, letting out a shaky breath.

“… Could you have been convinced back then?” Brienne dares to ask in reply.

“Probably not,” he says with a small smirk.

“Well, then you have your answer.” Brienne shrugs.

“I already feared that you were going to say that,” Jaime sighs with a smile. “Hope – my ass.”

Brienne still can’t help but look at him with a strange kind of fascination.

This is still the same man from the camp, the same man from the Dragonpit, she reminds herself. The man who treats her and the others like shit.

And who apparently happens to have a very… shadowy past, to say the absolute least.

There’s still a lot she has to stomach, but at present, that all blurs away for Brienne.

She is more concerned with the person she sees there in front of her right at this moment.

How can he sound and act all differently?

Her grief over Goodwin seemingly still makes her stupid.

This is still Lannister.

This is still him.

Don’t be fooled, she reminds herself. 

He looks at her again more seriously. “Tarth?”

“Yes?”

“In all sincerity, to say it one more time… to be _really_ clear. I didn’t mean for it that you had to witness… what happened yesterday. That _mustn’t_ happen. Just like I didn’t mean to be that much of a dick about your mentor’s death. I didn’t know that it was such a thing. I might be an asshole, no, I _know_ that I am, but that is something even an asshole like me doesn’t do on purpose,” he says. “I crush people’s hopes, not disgrace the dead.”

“… Alright,” Brienne finds herself say. “I… see.”

“About what I said back in the shower yesterday…”

“I won’t tell anyone,” Brienne assures him quickly.

Even though she doesn’t know why she assures him.

Why would she keep that a secret?

If she were better at blackmailing people, she’d have it pretty easy now, wouldn’t she?

It’d be all so damn easy, but…

She just can’t.

“That’s not what I meant to address, but, ugh, I’m glad for it either way,” he says, grinning at her uncertainly. “Though I imagine that this is not exactly something you’d wish to share either. This is embarrassing enough for us both.”

And that is _really_ new.

She’s never seen him uncertain.

Up to that point, Brienne believed it a thing of impossibility that Jaime Lannister was even capable of uncertainty.

“Trust me, I would rather forget about that… scene… yesterday,” Brienne agrees, but then her tone softens. “But what _did_ you mean to say, then?”

“… Doesn’t matter.” He shakes his head. “Forget it.”

And there it is again, that empty sort of smile.

It’s a… defense.

A wall.

Though it seems crumbled now, fractured in a few places.

“I will obviously pay for the laundry, and the shoes. I think I remember you pointing out to me that they took _considerable damage_ ,” he goes on. “How much do I owe you for the bar?”

“We don’t have to talk about that just now, it’s…”

“How much do I owe you – other than taking that whole night back?”

“One hundred twenty-seven, but, ugh, we don’t have to do that right now,” Brienne insists, gesturing with her hands, but Lannister already covers the distance between them, taking bills out of his pocket. “We _do_ have to do that right now.”

A Lannister always pays his debts…

“Here are one hundred fifty, for the trouble,” Jaime insists, holding out the dragons to her.

“But…”

“Just take the money now, Tarth,” he orders, but then his tone softens. “ _Please_.”

He just doesn’t want to owe her even more.

Brienne stuffs the bills into her pocket, her eyes not leaving him.

And for a moment she dares to consider what it must be like from his perspective. If she were Jaime in such a situation, she’d do the same, probably.

Trying to owe as little as possible.

Trying to be as little as possible dependent on other people.

Leaving no strings attached.

Brienne shakes her head once she feels his gaze on her, only to become conscious of the fact that she’s still in Jaime Lannister’s apartment – with Jaime Lannister, after… last night.

“I, I really should head home. I… I have to go,” she says, not looking at him.

“I can give you a ride,” he offers. “The least I could do after you had to play chaperone.”

“You shouldn’t be driving anywhere. I bet you still have residual alcohol in your blood,” Brienne argues. “I’ll walk.”

“I can also get you a taxi,” Jaime argues. “It’s just a phone call away.”

Yeah, and the time it takes for the driver to arrive.

Which means she will have to interact with him even more – in his apartment.

No, she has to get out of here, now.

“It’s alright. I _want_ to walk,” Brienne assures him. “Clears the head.”

“Alright,” he says, swallowing once, twice.

Brienne bolts to her feet at once. He copies her movement, though much smoother, and much slower.

As always.

He opens the door for her.

“Well, I guess I can only… thank you and… apologize –”

“– There’s no need,” she argues, holding up her hands. “It’s… alright.”

Even the oh so perfectly appearing Jaime Lannister, at the core, is… a human, tossed around by the world.

And while Brienne would like to slap herself for it for finding a strange kind of solace in other people’s inadequacies, she still dares to find it reassuring that even the best, the ones who seem untouchable… simply aren’t.

Maybe the thing about fairytales being tales is that they tell the fiction of people who are perfect, without a single scratch.

And maybe fairytales aren’t that much of an appealing fiction after all.

Someone without a scratch doesn’t need anyone to help him or her mend the fractures.

Someone without a scratch cannot let anyone close without risking fracture from the outside.

And what’s the point of an untouchable sphere, however perfect it may be, if you can’t get close, let alone inside?

What’s the point of caring about a perfect person? They don’t need anyone to care for them.

But the broken ones…

Even if they may not know…

Once upon a time, even they need someone.

If only to listen.

If only to not turn away.

If only to keep a secret.

If only to pick them up from a bar and make sure they don’t die from alcohol poisoning.

“Well, then I will see you for the next session, I suppose,” Jaime says.

“I will be there, yes,” Brienne nods. “Still some many holes to jump, Sir.”

He chuckles softly, leaning against the doorframe.

“But don’t think that I’ll go any easier on you now,” he warns her.

“… I wouldn’t have it any other way – if I want to improve.” Brienne nods. “Goodbye, Sir.”

He nods slowly, and Brienne slips out of the door as fast as she can thereafter, feeling her heart beating faster in her chest.

It may be that she feels a little more confident now that she got to see through that very… broken piece of glass… but that still doesn’t make it any less… odd…

In fact, as she makes her way outside, blinking against the harsh sunlight, it dawns on Brienne that this… just happened.

That she heard… what she heard.

Saw what she saw.

Learned what she learned.

Aerys.

His sister.

Robert Baratheon and Eddard Stark.

The department.

The team.

“Fuck,” she mutters, fisting her hair as she walks faster.

Goodwin would most certainly give her hell for doing such a foolish thing.

Jaime slides down with the back to the door until he sits on the ground, leaning his forehead on his knee, his mouth nervously flexing into a smirk.

“Fuck.”


	6. Essay

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The team is supposed to write an essay.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone, thanks for sticking around and for kudoing and commenting! You are all kinds of amazing! ♥♥♥
> 
> I hope you'll like this chapter!

Brienne lets out a sigh. Somehow, training sucked her right back in the moment she set foot upon the doorsteps leading inside the camp. And at some point, she was waiting to return, her fingers itched for it, against all odds. Staying at home only made her think about Goodwin and actually earned her some many phone calls from her father to have conversations that she didn’t want to have.

While he never opposed her in her decision of joining the department or the Special Forces, she knows that this is _anything_ but the life he’d want for her. Needless to mention that he is quite vocal about the matter. Thought it goes beyond worrying about her, as could be expected from a father whose child works a dangerous job such as this.

After the news of Goodwin’s death reached them, the phone calls became more frequent and her father expressed his worry that maybe she was trying to cover up for her pain by tossing herself back into work, as she had done when still a child…

Well, Brienne can’t really blame her father for it. She is his one remaining child, and his one remaining child has no better to do but join perhaps the most dangerous profession in entire Westeros. It figures that he’d rather have her at home, someplace safe.

Needless to mention that he still lives the fantasy that Brienne will settle down on Tarth, at best move into the mansion by Evenfall Hall, and have a dozen children with a loving husband, apron around the mannish waist, rocking another baby close to her flat chest.

_As if._

To her utter relief, things are considerably normal, however normal it can be, between her and Lannister ever since she returned to the camp. He didn’t treat her differently, but he didn’t treat her worse either. Brienne already feared that it would be more awkward, _much_ more awkward, but… it wasn’t. There were no odd conversations and no allusions or comments about it, something she was more than glad about.

So now Brienne is comfortable in training again, working as hard as ever, regardless of what the team leader may have told her back in his apartment.

She won’t give up.

Ever.

There is just no way.

Brienne pushes away from her desk to walk around a bit.

Because she feels like giving up on that stupid task.

When entering the conference room earlier this day, Lannister’s smile was about as big as that of the Cheshire Cat as he announced the task. Brienne had already hoped for some new kind of simulation or a small field mission, instead, they got a stack of papers, pencils, and pens.

“You will write an essay today,” was the announcement causing an uproar, followed by a simultaneous groan to go through the room. “Rejoice.”

“Why would we write an _essay_?” Hunt grunted. “I wrote the last one back in High School.”

“ _Because I said_ that you’ll write an essay, that’s why you’ll write an essay, rather straightforward, don’t you agree?” Jaime replied with an easy smile. “So the question you should be asking instead is: how many pages and what topic, _Sir_?”

“Well?” Hunt blinks at him, waiting for the leader to tell the information.

Jaime rolled his eyes.

“You will write an essay with the topic: Why do I want to become an agent of the Special Forces,” Jaime announced. “You’ll give me a maximum five pages. You can do it in this room or in your own room, I don’t care. It’s not like you can cheat since there is… nothing available here. How smart of me to think about that in advance! So now, you’ll give me those five pages at best, bigger font is not allowed to make it appear like more, and if I can’t read your chicken scratch, or if you write total bogus, thinking that I don’t take this seriously, I will make a paper plane out of your essay and throw you out of the program.”

“What?!”

“You heard me. If you don’t do as I tell you, you go. I told you right from the beginning, so don’t act surprised. I won’t let you shit me. I want that essay, and it better be a good read or else you’ll do it again. For those not accustomed to writing the common tongue, there should be some dusty dictionary over in that cupboard. You don't get to write this together. I don't care if you work on it together if your brains are just too interlinked.” He glared at Theon and Robb. “But I want to have six individual essays by the end of today. You are to hand it in until midnight.”

“And that is all we’re going to do today?” Loras asked, making his disappointment no secret.

“Why yes! I have to give you the time it takes for a good essay. Have fun,” he said, clapping his hands together, before disappearing again. The others went on lamenting as Brienne grabbed her paper and fled the room. She can do this far better in private.

Just that now she wants to hurl, realizing that after hours, she only has her name and the title at the top of the page.

Why does she want to be a Special Forces agent?

Brienne knows _that_ she wants it, but once she started to write, the more difficult she found it to find the words that should be so very easy. When she grabbed the paper, Brienne thought she’d instantly fill at least two pages.

After all, Brienne can think of reasons.

Protecting innocent people.

Fulfilling her duty to the people of Westeros.

To reduce criminality.

To make this place safer.

But none of that rings true once she writes it down. That sounds like something she may have written back in Middle School when asked what she wants to be in the future, and it’s about becoming president, astronaut or vet.

But why does she really want to become that?

Why does she want to be that?

For Brienne, it seemed the most natural thing once Goodwin told her that she’d be a suitable candidate, it seemed natural because he believed in her. She got drunk on that feeling that he stood true to his word, helped her into the program – and she exceled to the point that no one could claim the opposite anymore. Brienne got almost giddy when she received her reports, attesting her the skills now people used to deny her.

But is that what drives her, still?

Because then she could have dropped out after the training program. But Brienne stayed.

Or did she do it to prove that women could be as good as men? Not really, to tell the truth. Brienne was never much concerned with the idea. She wanted to prove _herself_ , but she didn’t want to prove that women generally could. While she believes that they can, because so she can, it wasn’t on her mind, really.

It was about herself, and _only_ about herself.

There was no global dimension to her decision in that regard.

“Did I seriously just do this to show the assholes who talked me down the finger?” Brienne mutters to herself.

That can’t be it.

There has to be _more_.

She glances over to the clock. There is just one more hour left, and all she has are a bunch of crumpled paper balls.

“I better put something down…,” Brienne mumbles. “I am probably overthinking this anyways.”

As always.

“And now I am talking to myself,” she groans.

Suddenly, a knock on the door. Brienne whirls her head around.

“Tarth?”

What is Lannister doing here? They still have an hour until they have to finish.

“Yes?”

“May I come in or are you in your birthday suit?”

“You can come in.”

Jaime Lannister strides inside, leaving the door open as he stands in the frame. Though Brienne is glad for it. That gives her security that it won’t be something personal. Or else he’d close the door.

“I just meant to check if you were done yet.”

“I thought we had until midnight?”

“You do. It’s just that I received all other papers… some three hours ago, and I wondered if you died all alone from a papercut,” Jaime says with an easy smile. “And as rules have it, I have to check for that, or else I have a ton of paperwork to do.”

Brienne grumbles to herself, twisting the pencil in her palm to the point that it crunches.

“Having trouble?”

“I can do this, thank you,” Brienne retorts, pursing her lips.

“Oh, I bet you can. I actually thought you’d hand in extra early.”

“I want it to be… _good_ ,” Brienne replies, licking her lips. “Or is it just a joke again? Because then you might just as well say so and save us both the trouble.”

“No joke, indeed something very serious,” Jaime replies.

“Really? For that you have a big smile on your face… _Sir_.”

Brienne would like to mentally smack herself right there. While he likely doesn’t hold it against her after the bar incident, he is still her superior – and Brienne knows that she shouldn’t and mustn’t talk back in such a way.

But somehow, she just always ends up having confidence during the worst moments.

“Just because I like to see you all squirm doesn’t mean I don’t take it seriously. I thought we clarified that one thing by now, if unintentionally,” Lannister says, absently glancing down the hallway before focusing on her again. “So? Where does the shoe pinch?”

“The shoe doesn’t pinch anywhere, Sir.”

“Which is why you redecorated the whole room with paper balls.” He points at the sheer mass of white, crumpled paper balls on the ground with his chin. Brienne lets out a small grunt.

“I… I don’t need extra treatment,” she hisses.

That is what she feared for.

She’d never want extra treatment.

Never.

“That’s _no_ extra treatment. Extra treatment was that I didn’t flunk the Hulk for writing the title wrong… and putting in the wrong date. He really isn’t the brightest of the bunch,” Jaime huffs, his lips curling into a smirk. “I help wherever it is needed. Except for holding Little Wolf’s hand as he suffers from separation anxiety from his little Octopus. You know, one part of being your mentor is actually… mentoring?”

“… I don’t know what to write,” Brienne admits at last, though she doesn’t know just why she does it. “I _can_ think of reasons, that’s not the thing. But I can’t think of _the_ … one reason that drives me. I can think of all the small reasons, but… I don’t know what drives me most.”

“Well, there’s worse points to start from.”

“What? I don’t know what to write that’s… true.”

She can’t give an answer to the question he asked! That’s a problem of course!

She cannot answer just why she wants to do the job, no matter what suffering it puts her through.

That answer should be easy, but for Brienne, it is not, or so she had to realize thanks to that stupid essay.

“Well, that’s something to say already.”

“That I don’t know what to write?” Brienne wrinkles her nose, to which he only shrugs at her.

“Well, sometimes you have to have confidence in… admitting that there are things you can’t do. I learned that lesson… very late, if ever, after all, I am a Lannister, we have arrogance in our DNA. And sometimes admitting that you can’t do or don’t know an answer to something is perhaps the best option. That means you don't say something wrong,” he goes on, pushing away from the doorframe. “In any case… I want that essay in fifty minutes. Bring it to my office, alright?”

“Yes.”

Jaime nods before exiting, closing the door behind him. Brienne glances back at the paper.

The things she can’t do…

Brienne picks up the pencil and starts to write.

Ten minutes later, she knocks on Lannister’s office door.

“C’mon in.”

Brienne slips inside, curling her lips into what she knows is likely an odd frown.

“So? Have you finished yet or do you need more advice?”

“No, I got it… here,” Brienne replies, hastily holding out the paper to him. Jaime tilts his head as he takes it from her.

“Hm, one page only?” he asks, amused. “Ha, actually just a paragraph!”

“You said _maximum_ five pages, not minimum.”

“You know that you are one of the few who caught on to that? Even Hulk delivered five pages…,” he chortles. “Oh well, that should make it quick so we can all sneak under the covers and get some sleep…”

Jaime’s eyes dance over the written words, brushing over his bearded chin with his thumb and index finger.

“Well?”

“Hm, you passed. Like you all somehow did, no worries,” Jaime says. “You can now go back to your room. Tomorrow, we’ll have some fun.”

“You’ll bring us to the brink of death, huh?”

“Oh Seven Hells, yes!” Jaime grins. Brienne can’t help a small smile, but then thinks better of it. She gives a hasty nod, bows slightly – out of habit, and means to turn around to go, but then Jaime’s voice rings out again.

“You shouldn’t do that.”

His voice suddenly _very_ sincere, his green eyes trained on her the whole time.

“What?” She blinks at him.

“Bowing.”

“That’s… just an odd habit, it’s…”

“I’ve seen it before,” Jaime nods. “So I know that this is a habit of yours. But you really should work on no longer doing it, or doing it less often, Tarth.”

“Why?”

What does it matter?

“Don't make yourself smaller than you are. For that you are too tall anyways,” Jaime tells her.

She is hiding, he can see that. If only internally. And really, there is nothing to hide in that regard.

“That’s unlike you anyways,” he goes on.

After all, she has the guts to be in his face the way she was during the bar incident. Such a woman shouldn’t have to hide her confidence with awkward bows.

Brienne blinks. “I will… keep that in mind, Sir. Thanks for your time. Have a good night.”

With that she disappears out the door. Jaime leans back in his chair, twisting around a bit as he looks at Brienne’s essay another time.

_I don’t know why exactly I am here. I hope I will find out through the training, however. I don't know if it’s just the wish to protect the people or something entirely else that drives me. I don't know what I expect from the training because I don’t know what to expect from myself. I hope that once I completed the training, I will have a better knowledge of who I am and hence answer the question of why I want to be here better than I do with these few lines. Perhaps I have to walk down the path before I know just why exactly I started to walk it. All I know is that I am willing to work hard for reaching the end of the road, to look back to the start to see where I really came from. That much I can say without a doubt._

“Well, that’s one way of putting it,” Jaime chuckles as he puts the paper back down.

As it appears, not all hope is lost yet.

* * *

 

A couple of days later, Lannister has them all assembled in the conference room.

“… I have now looked through your essays.  I must say that I am glad you didn’t try out as poets, you would have sucked ass,” Jaime begins, sitting on the desk at the front. “Nevertheless, I can’t throw you out for that – or so I was told. I’d tend to flunk someone who even fails to write the right date on the top of the page, but who am I to judge?”

He looks at them all for a long moment.

“In any case. I bet you all ask yourselves just why I would make you write that.”

“Because it’s required?” Ronnet snorts.

“In fact _not_. That is something I reserve exclusively for _my_ recruits,” Jaime says with a sly grin.

“What now?” the other man asks, with a big frown.

“I have decided that I have been going too easy on you,” Jaime replies.

“Too easy?” Hyle repeats disbelievingly.

“Mhm. _Way_ too easy. Especially if the motivations that drive more than one of you is getting a boost in the career. If I didn’t exorcise that demon from you yet, well, that means I went way too easy on you.”

“What’s wrong with ambition?” Robb grimaces.

“Nothing. The problem is if climbing the ladder is the _one_ thing that drives you to climb it. You are supposed to strive to become the very best, but you can get the idea right out of your heads that you will climb to the very top of the food chain in the department, with just that team. For that… you joined the wrong team. I don’t educate social climbers.”

“So what does that mean? Running more laps?” Theon jokes.

“That means learning to do your job better so that people don’t die.”

“Wow, that sounds great,” Ronnet snorts.

“It _should_ , because that is the very basic thing you ought to do, and up to this point, you did a miserable job at it by trying to climb the ladder instead of making sure no one fell down and got killed,” Jaime snaps, glaring at the red-haired man for a long moment.

“You want to be ambitious? Fine. But before we talk about climbing the ladder in the department, you will climb _my_ ladder of becoming a team, or at least trying harder in that regard. I don't care if you like me, that’s no secret. I don’t care if you hate each other. I need you to work together, _you_ need to work together so that we don't end up getting killed. And I don’t care about your personal fucking around with each other. You can still hate or love each other in private, so long you do the job alright and don’t make me cover all your backs on a mission so that your partner whom you _should_ be covering doesn’t end up dead. As would have been the case during our last mission, I may add.”

The others just stare at him. Brienne also stares, but rather out of surprise that he vocalizes the things he said to her back in the Dragonpit.

Somehow, she didn't dare believe it possible that he would address this so openly, when in fact he didn’t address it ever since the mission took place.

“That is what I am here for, and that is how I am to train you. This way and no other. So whoever cannot live with the idea that this will take precedence before going on some mission that will gain you glory and a star on the wall in the department…” Jaime gets up and walks over to the door to open it. “Here’s door. I expect from you all to damn well try harder to please me and climb the ladder _I_ show to you. The ladder for this team to climb first is to actually become a team. That is the very base everything else builds on. If you don't want that, if you don’t care… _go_. Stop wasting my time – and your time likewise. I won’t accustom my training so that it fits your career purposes. The training you get from me will ensure that you will excel in becoming a team, furthering your skills in combat and all the other domains that matter _on the job_. You either roll with that, or you roll out of the program. Easy as that. So? Anyone who wants to take his or her leave? I will write you a nice report, no bother. I will say you completed the basic training and see to it that you can join another team, but if you can’t live with how I train my recruits, then get the fuck out of here.”

Perhaps he cannot compose anymore, but maybe some tuning is possible after all.

All just stare at him, and Brienne can’t help but marvel at how it just washes over him, or so it appears. She’d never have the confidence to deliver something like that to the whole group.

Guts he has, you can’t deny him that.

“So? No one?” he asks, looking each in the eye once. “Last chance.”

Jaime nudges the door shut with his foot.

“The door is officially closed,” he announces. “That means your asses now absolutely belong to me, completely. If you don’t play by my rules, you’ll go. If you fuck with me, you’ll go. If you corrupt my effort of making you a team by being a dickback, you’ll go. No exceptions, no special statuses. I don't care for who your daddy is, I don't care who wrote your reference letters, I don’t care if you can shoot best, act best, run fastest, or if you have the most luxurious hair. I don’t give a fuck so long you make an effort of becoming a team. If you don’t – you will go.”

He is just really done shitting around.

And if this whole project is damned anyways, then he might screw the Big Bad Wolf and the Fat Stag one last time, right?

If there is one thing that became clearer to Jaime recently, then it is that this will prove them right in a way that he is not willing to let them.

Because they are not.

As it appears, stubbornness is contagious.

“So, to celebrate your revived or renewed or newly sparked up team spirit… we’ll do some good old bonding!” Jaime announces, his face going from completely serious to giddy in less than a second as he takes out. “With actual bonds.”

“What now?” Loras grimaces.

“You’ll run in pairs, bound together by the leg, easy as that. We will rotate the pairs until you sync with all of your remaining team mates. That trains your body to unconsciously adapt to your partner’s movement, so it’s perfect for you! You don’t even have to think about the team work anymore, imagine that! Even the dumb ones should get it! Isn’t that great?”

The guys grumble as they push up from their seats.

“The loser team will get a sash of shame with glitter and pink brocade, by the way!” Jaime calls after them as they exit, causing all to groan. “So you can’t say I don’t see to some awesome motivation!”

Brienne stops for a moment once she crossed to the front of the room.

“Anything you want to add, Tarth?” he chuckles softly.

“No, there’s nothing to add,” Brienne replies slowly. “Nothing… at all.”

“Then you should get going or else you’ll run an extra lap, or two, or seven, for each of the Seven.”

“Yes, Sir.” Brienne nods, reminding herself to keep her head high before exiting.

Jaime gets up from the table, tapping his palm against the pockets of his jeans.

“Time to make someone cry,” he muses before exiting as well.

He doesn't know for certain that this will help in any way to form a _true_ team out of that mess of a group, but it can't harm to try out some dusty rules and methods that stayed untouched for a long while

After all, not knowing if something works out is not the worst points to start from.

Or in this case, start over.


	7. White Book

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaime teaches his team another lesson. 
> 
> Brienne finds something that belongs to Jaime.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone! Thanks for sticking around, kudoing, and commenting! You are so kind!
> 
> I hope you'll enjoy this chapter. 
> 
> Much love! ♥

Brienne leans her head back to glance into the brightly shining sun, allowing it to blind her as she pushes the air out of her straining lungs.

Lannister did not lie when he said that he would now take on them even harder than he did before. If training was tough before, it’s straight up excruciating now.

But Brienne wouldn’t ever complain – because she finally has the feeling that they are working towards becoming a _team_. They are doing simulations designed to train _just_ that almost daily now, they get bound together, even back to back at times, to learn how to move and anticipate each other’s movements, and much more.

And that pink Sash of Shame… Gods, Brienne loathes it.

However, she’ll take up with weeks of wearing the sash so long they are walking down the right path, or at least in the right direction.

For today, Lannister thought of something new. Brienne doesn’t know just when and how he set that up overnight, but when they got to the back of the property this morning, a vast obstacle course had risen out of dust and dried grass.

“Welcome to the Stairway to Hell,” he announced, before he went on to explain the rules. “The task is easy enough. You will work in pairs I get to pick and you don’t get to argue about, and you don’t get complain unless you want to run… for a _long_ time. In any case, each team will draw from this stack of cards which I personally decorated _magnificently_ …”

He pulled out a big stack of laminated cards… with some awfully scribbled dead smileys on the back.

“On the back of the card you will find the path your team is to take through the obstacle course. Since I assume you will need more than one try, it’d be boring if you always ran down the same path, and it raises the danger that you end up cheating by trying to remember the course in all detail. So anyways, one of you plays guide, the other one is guided through the obstacle course. You are to make it in under five minutes. Whatever technique you want to use is fine with me. You can talk about this beforehand to make up a tactic, that is up to you. You only passed once you made it through the course under five minutes. You can’t skip obstacles, obviously.”

Well, but that was only half the fun, or so Lannister informed them.

To top it all, they weren’t just meant to make it through the course under five minutes, they are supposed to do it blindfolded, guided by their partner who can see and has the map in hand.

It’s likely needless to mention that up to this point, no team succeeded in maneuvering to the end of the course within the five minute limit Lannister set.

“This is ridiculous,” Theon moans, lying on the ground, spread-eagle.

“Shut your mouth already or else we will all be running extra laps because you can’t stop complaining,” Loras hisses. That he and Brienne failed about as miserably as everyone else didn’t exactly help his mood either.

Brienne tried her best to guide him through, but it’s extremely difficult to tell someone where something is and what that something is in dimension.

The forming bruises on her body prove that point – since Loras didn’t fare much better when he walked next to her as she made her way through the obstacle course.

“I think we are just meant to be taught that this is impossible, and no one fuckin’ admits it, and it’d be all over if someone finally did,” Theon says between gasps for air.

“Don’t deduce from your inability to that of other’s,” Loras rolls his eyes.

“Comes from the guy who didn’t manage yet either,” Theon retorts.

“Still further than you,” Loras snorts, unimpressed.

“Guys, could you just _not_?!” Robb grunts.

“FUCK!” Ronnet’s voice rings out in the distance.

“Oh, that means Hunt didn’t tell Ronnet about the pothole,” Theon chortles.

“WHAT DID I TELL YOU?!”

“Trouble in paradise,” Loras huffs.

“Wow, you suck,” Jaime says, shaking his head as he walks up to them.

“If we admit that we do, does that mean we fulfilled that lesson?” Theon asks with a grimace.

“That you suck is an ultimate truth, there’s nothing to it to teach you what you already know,” Jaime huffs. “I want you to make it through the course in under five minutes. Until you didn’t succeed in that, we’ll keep running.”

“This is impossible,” Theon insists.

“It’s not impossible. You just don’t try hard enough.”

“I call this bullshit.”

“I call _you_ bullshit,” Jaime huffs. “It’s not as difficult as you make it. This is not so much about skill, this is about teamwork, you know? The things you gotta learn but find incredibly difficult because you are a bunch of egomaniacs?”

“Prove it.”

Jaime sucks the inside of his left cheek further into his mouth, his smile fading away at once. Brienne studies him with a grimace.

It’s just so odd how his mood changes so fast.

Sometimes she really wished she could see inside that man’s head.

“ _Prove it_ … alright,” he says, tilting his head. Jaime then takes off his basecap and his vest so that he stands in cargo pants and a tight black shirt.

“What? _You_ want to do the run now?”

“That is how I’d think I’d prove it, yes.”

“But… you know the course. You set it up.”

“Which is why you will now take this pen,” Jaime says, tossing a red marker at Theon. “And decide on a course by scribbling it on the map. Hence I don’t know the course. No cheating.”

“Fine,” Theon says with a shrug.

“Tarth? I’d need to borrow you or else this will likely lead to me running straight into that wall over there, which, I grant you, would make for some comedy, but would also lead to me being pissed enough to throw you all out of the program.”

Brienne pushes to her feet, holding back the groan meaning to escape her lips.

“Wench, don’t give me that face,” Jaime calls out. “Consider this the good kind of special treatment. It will most definitely help you, trust me in this.”

Bienne grimaces, glancing over at Robb and Theon as they try to come up with a path.

“Tarth, come over here,” Jaime says, wriggling his finger at her to gesture at her to come closer. Brienne walks over to him stiffly. She has to hold back a squeal when he leans in closer to whisper something into her ear, but Brienne thinks better of it. Though she still can’t help the small shudder once she feels his hot breath against the side of her face.

“Got it?” he asks once he pulls away. Brienne nods frantically, swallowing thickly. “Yes.”

“Hunt, the goggles?” Jaime asks, snapping his fingers impatiently. Hyle hands them over at once. Jaime pulls the blackened goggles over his eyes.

“Are you done yet or are you trying to write your initials with the path?”

“Done,” Theon replies, thrusting the plan into Brienne’s hand. She glances at it – they surely chose a difficult course. She turns around on the heel to walk over to Jaime, tapping him lightly on the shoulder once to give him a clue where she is. Brienne guides him over to the starting line.

“Just keep in mind what I told you. Trust me, this works.”

“Alright,” Brienne replies quietly, letting her eyes wander over to the others who are whispering and grinning way too smugly to her liking. She wets her lips.

“Ready, set, go!” Robb shouts.

Brienne runs ahead, her glance alternating between the path and Jaime.

 _Adjust your rhythm to mine if you can_ , he said.  

“And there comes the first obstacle,” Theon muses.

“Wooden wall, three feet high. In three, two, one,” Brienne says before both reach the wall.

_Simple orders without giving me distances but simple a countdown._

But instead of walking beside it, Brienne climbs atop of it along with Jaime, who moves almost perfectly parallel to her as she tells him which limb she uses and he copies her movement instantly.

_Don’t walk beside, but run the obstacles along with me and tell me how you climb or how you think I can climb._

The others just stare daggers as the two maneuver through the course, Brienne climbing over every obstacle alongside Jaime, telling him how she moves or how she thinks he can best take the obstacle. And surprisingly, she finds it much easier than what she and Loras first agreed upon. Just like Jaime cuts through the course as though it was the most normal thing on earth, as though he never did something else.

She can’t help but marvel just with what grace he moves, against the odds of being blindfolded. She knows she staggered around like a drunkard during her first run, but Jaime? He looks like it's the most natural way of movement.

They don’t call him the Lion of Lannister for nothing.

Brienne can hardly believe it once her feet carry her past the finishing line.

“We are done,” she says. Jaime comes to a halt, one hand on his side while he rips off the goggles with his right, blinking against the harsh sunlight evading his vision.

“Good job, Tarth,” he says quietly, his eyes already trained on the gaping crowd at the other end of the course. “C’mon.”

Brienne follows as Jaime jogs back to the rest of the group.

_Good job._

She can’t help the hidden smile as she jogs after him.

“I reckon we made it under five minutes. If I am not mistaken, it should be something like three minutes and forty-five seconds, plus minus a few.”

“3:48,” Loras confirms, pursing his lips.

“So now, this should have taught you three lessons. One, if you want to really develop solid teamwork, you aren’t done with standing by. You have to fully commit at every step of the way.”

“You also could’ve mentioned that we were allowed to.”

“Because on a mission I will stand behind you to tell you what you can do? Get real, Goldy Locks,” Jaime retorts. “Neither one of you recognized that I was giving you each a chance to walk the course without the blindfolds on when you guided your partner, which gave you a clear advantage for when you did your walk. And instead of using that opportunity, you tried to save up your energies to run fast. Well, you would’ve been faster, had you used your time wisely.”

The team members look around, somewhat shocked but also ashamed somewhat.

It’s always tough to be told just how wrong you were about certain things.

“So the first lesson you ought to learn is that I won’t hold your hand through it all and that you must be more aware of chances once they arise, even if that means some extra-work. The second lesson is that you have to adapt your orders to your partner instead of to yourself. I saw again and again that you barked out orders that required the partner to see something which he or she could not. You talked about how many feet away this is, but guess what? Even _that_ is a vague estimation, which means that even if your partner somehow manages to estimate the distance you named correctly, which is difficult enough, he or she couldn’t know if there was another step to go, or if the distance was a bit shorter.”

All just look at him.

“Some of you tried to say how many footsteps that was away, and that was already far better than giving a rough estimation of the distance, I grant you. The problem was that the ones who did apparently went ahead to say how many footsteps that would be from one’s own perspective,” he says, glancing over at Loras and Brienne. “I know you two tried different tactics and after the distance proved to be shitty, you went to counting steps – which is good in itself because in contrast to other teams here, you at least tried something. However, you two never should have sought that out as a tactic because the wench is by far taller than you are, which means you should have given her the footsteps for her, not for yourself.”

Brienne looks over at Loras, who just looks pissed in turn.

“With regards to tactic one, look at Tarth. After you all had a good laugh at that, you should remember. She smacked her forehead against the wooden wall upon first try because Tyrell’s first impetus was to just tell her that the obstacle is some two feet away. She missed her step, it slowed her down, and so she ran into the obstacle. Same happened between Octopus and Little Wolf. You didn’t mention dimensions of the obstacles or where to grab to get a hold on it.”

“And why didn’t you correct us?” Ronnet asks.

“Because you were supposed to figure it out yourself, or at least I wanted to give you a chance to do such. Some of you caught on to that after all and at least tried some variations, instead of going with your approach which was to be pissy for your guide doing as you asked him, while forgetting that you told him to give you the exact distances, which Hulk cannot. And that is something you could have and should have seen through without me having to point it out to you.”

“Then what did you do?” Loras asks.

“Now, that’s the right question to ask!” Jaime says with a sly grin. “Before we went ahead, I told her that she was supposed to take the obstacles with me and should try to accustom to my pace. Tarth could now give me a countdown because she adapted her step pattern to mine so that she could tell me what obstacle there is, when exactly I reach it, and then how to best get over it. But obviously you won’t be able to give that information if you are only standing on the sideline. I don’t say that this is the perfect option, but I know that this works for me. The issue is that you didn’t talk about it with your partner, instead you only lamented about how difficult it is. If you want to be a team, you have to have a knowledge of your team mates – and yourself.”

“What’s the third lesson?” Theon asks, annoyed.

“The third lesson is that the next time one of you thinks he can demand of me to _prove_ my skills, I will throw him out of the program,” Jaime snaps.

“I didn’t mean it like that,” Theon argues vehemently.

“And I don’t care. There is one thing you have to understand: I am your boss. And I am your boss because I earned myself that position, after years of hard work. I can tell you to jump through that hoop because I already did back during my training years. You don’t get to challenge me like that because I have already walked down that part of the way. You are standing at the beginning, you earned nothing yet. I did, so if I tell you that you are to run that obstacle course, you won’t ever again question me in my authority of making you walk it, and neither will you ask me to prove to you that I can do the same things you can. I can do more than you – which is why I am here, to teach you the things you can’t do yet. Are we clear on that?”

“Yes, Sir.”

“Good. Now, Little Wolf, you’ll play guide for him here. And if you don’t get further than the last time, I will get out my paintball gun. Go! Go! Go!”

The two scramble to their feet at once, hurrying over to the obstacle course. Jaime shakes his head. He grabs two soft plastic bottles of water and tosses one over to Brienne. She catches it and takes some hasty sips, as he does.

And against all odds, after one or two more tries, all make it through the obstacle course.

“Welcome to Hell, everyone!” Jaime calls out once it’s over. “I expected you to do worse, so I’d say you surpassed my low expectations, congratulations. You can now go and grab a shower. Training’s over for the day.”

The men hurry away before Jaime thinks better of it and gives them some extra task – he likes to do that, a lot. Brienne stays only a moment longer, before it dawns on her that this may only bring about conversation, so she turns around and walks away as well.

Jaime keeps standing there a while longer, glancing at the obstacle course.

“A long way to go.”

* * *

Later the day, Brienne is out for jogging. One should think that training would leave her whimpering in the bed thanks to the stitches in the sides or the sore muscles, but a long, if rather slow jogging session always helps her ease out some of the pain, just like it clears her head.

She rounds the corner of the building to cut past the obstacle course, which seem a lot larger in the approaching darkness as the shadows reach even higher.

Brienne frowns once she spots something near an obstacle, a small object, but the white color stands out even in the twilight. She bends down to pick up what turns out to be a notebook, an old notebook, to be sure, bound in leather and the pages used up by the edges. She twists it between her fingers until the familiarity returns to her. That’s Jaime’s. She saw him flip through the pages more than once when he observes them during training, though he never writes anything in it, he just reads the same pages again and again, or so she observed.

Suddenly, something moves to her right. Brienne whips her head around to see Lannister rounding the corner of the building, apparently looking around rather nervously. She starts to jog over to him. “Sir?”

“Tarth?” Jaime blinks as he sees the woman approach. “I thought that I finally managed to tire you enough not to go walking after a training session.”

Brienne can’t help the grimace – his tone seems very enacted right at that moment, because she can hear an edge of nervousness in his voice.

“It’s not easy to tire me,” Brienne replies simply as she covers the last bit of distance. “I have a lot durability, or so Goodwin always told me.”

And for a moment, it doesn’t pain at all to say it, so Brienne notes.

Curious.

Normally, mentioning him always brings her down, but right now? It doesn’t.

“As nice as it is to have a chat, I fear I have to cut things short. I seem to have mislaid something,” Jaime means to say, but that is when Brienne holds out the notepad to him. “Is that what you have mislaid by any chance?”

His green eyes flicker at her as Jaime takes it from her, his fingertips merely touching hers. Though it still sends small bolts of electricity up her body.

“Indeed. Thank you,” Jaime says, looking very relieved all of a sudden. “It seems that I lost it when I climbed one of the obstacles.”

“Seems like it,” Brienne agrees. “What is that, by the way? I mean… nevermind.”

That is not her business.

Don't blur profession and personal, she reminds herself.

“Other than a notebook you mean?”

“I am sorry, I never should have asked. I was just curious because I saw you read it again and again, but never write in it, but… it doesn’t matter.”

“Have you ever heard of the White Book?” he suddenly asks, catching Brienne off-guard. “The White Book?”

If she heard of it?

 _Of course_ she did. Like everyone else who ever worked for the department.

The White Book is a legend in the entire department. Some talk about it as though it was the Holy Grail, really. The book that contains all the best.

“Wait, you mean to tell me that this is the White Book? I mean, _the_ White Book?”

“I know, quite disappointing if people in the department believe it to be a tome as thick as a dictionary with calligraphy and pictures and golden brocade, but yes, that’s the White Book. Indeed, it’s the only book of that kind that exists, so it’s singular in that regard anyways. Even if not as fancy as people make it out to be.”

A notebook.

A leather-bound notebook with used-up pages.

Brienne honestly thought that at least that mystery was somewhat greater than the reality of having this small notepad in front of her now.

“Though I never understood how that rumor came about. It was always that damned notebook. None of us ever claimed it to be a fancy book, but then again, you expect a great thing to contain the great deeds of the elite forces, so maybe that is why.”

“Maybe…”

“Did you look inside?”

“What? No, Sir, I wouldn’t ever dare.”

“I wasn’t going to yell at you even if you did. It stands to reason to be curious.”

“I didn’t look. You came the exact same moment I found it,” Brienne explains.

 _Of course_ she wouldn't dare, for that the wench is too honest.

“Would you like to read it?”

Brienne would have to lie to say that she wouldn’t like to. In fact, once she heard about it, Brienne always dreamed about putting her name down in that book as well. Even if she didn’t really know just what would be written in it. She just wanted to be a part of it. A part of that excellence.

“I… no.”

“You really are a terrible liar. It’s quite fascinating just how bad you are at it,” Jaime chuckles softly. “But you can, if you want.”

“Really? I mean…”

Jaime shrugs at her as he hands the notebook over to Brienne. She takes it into her hands as though it was made of glass, now that she knows what it is. Brienne flips it open to a random page. In the growing darkness, she has to lean in very close to decipher the written words, to the point that she can smell the paper, the pencil, and faint traces of aftershave.

“Wait, here you go,” Jaime says, taking out his cellphone to provide a torch.

Though at some point Jaime honestly asks himself just why he does it.

This is actually a well-kept secret.

But then again…

What he said to her in the shower was a well-kept secret, too, and it spilled out of him like bad blood.

“Thank you.”

Brienne licks her lips as she starts to skim through the pages.

Duncan “the Tall”, one of the most formidable Special Forces agents the department has ever seen. Arthur Dayne… and Aerys Targaryen. His record is enormous, filling a good five pages, most of which involve undercover work. All written in the same handwriting, though it becomes edgier and edgier towards the end of the entry.

All the great names that are spoken with awe around the offices are united between those pages. And their names are all listed, signed, a silent statement of that man having been there, of that man having left traces that still flit down the corridors of the offices.

Brienne can't help but feel awe at this.

“In the beginning, it was really just a notebook that the first team members of the Special Forces used to sign up, pretty much. They only put down their names, but nothing more. Aerys changed that later on.”

“Why did he?” Brienne asks curiously, tilting her head lightly. 

“He thought it was a great idea to put down the good deeds a team member did throughout his career. Hence the new tradition was this: Underneath each entry, you’ll find their greatest deeds listed. Aerys, as the team captain, would write down the deeds of all of his team members. He filled the pages for us. But he also put down the not so good deeds. In essence, it’s a collection of the actions we undertook.”

He wrote all our stories.

Histories.

His stories.

“ _We_? So you also have an entry.”

“ _Of course_ I do. I was his right-hand man… for all the good it’s done him,” Jaime jokes, though it sounds even hollower now that Brienne learned the truth from him.

"That... makes sense," Brienne says, wanting to mentally smack herself. _Of course_ he has an entry. She bites her lower lip as curiosity gets the better of her, however. “May I read yours?”

“Sure,” he says with a shrug of his broad shoulders. His fingers dance over the paper and expertly flip to the right page. Brienne notes that this page is especially worn out, and likely the one page he always turned to again and again when she saw him taking out the notebook. 

“Jaime Lannister… Elected to the Special Forces team _Dragon’s Cry_ at the age of twenty, the youngest member of the team up to date… Took out the drug ring _Little Guild_ … Rescued…,” Brienne mumbles to herself as she reads through the page.

All those great deeds.

Brienne only hopes to have similarly as much to fill her page.

She flips to the next double-page only to gape at it.

On the first page it reads: **Traitor** , written in reddish brown and with fury.

On the second page it says: **Kingslayer** , written in black and with judgment.

“The first bit is from Aerys himself. I reckon he wrote that after I told him that I wanted to call the authorities about… the _Wildfire_ ,” Jaime says with a sad smile. “He wrote that with his own blood, you know? The fool always cut himself somehow. He even managed to cut himself on his gun once. Well, and apparently, he had run out of ink, and so he rolled with that instead of finding himself a pen. Though I will grant him, it didn’t miss the effect.”

Brienne can do nothing but stare at the page. You can feel the anger radiating from the paper. While she doesn’t know Aerys further than from the reports, the pictures, and from what Jaime told her, the images of him sitting at a desk, furiously spilling his blood on the page, his face a grimace of madness and fury, start forming inside her head – and they leave her nothing but shuddering.

And that man is still glorified.

“And the second?”

“That was one of the team members. I don’t know who it was. Neither do I care. I was obviously disbanded right after killing Aerys, until my case was _cleared_. So I didn’t have it by the time, after all, it would have gone to me by rights of succession, if you will. Since I was his second-in-command. Once I was rehabilitated, however lousily, I may add, and went to the department to put my things back in my locker, I found that already inside, flipped to that page. Nice welcome home present, really. Though they forgot the flowers and chocolates."

“Your own team did that?” Brienne can't help but gape at him.

That is... cruel.

“Why yes! They thought I killed their captain because it fitted my purposes. I don’t blame them. It’s the most natural conclusion to draw, I suppose… Though I don’t think it was necessary to leave the book with me. They could have continued it. It’s a pity that it’s now lost with the Kingslayer of all people. But then again, perhaps it’s better that way.”

After all, what legacy did Aerys leave in the aftermath that is worth continuing?

“Did _you_ write in the book?” Brienne asks hesitantly.

“I added what I heard about from my former team members and what they did as parts of their new team or teams, more out of habit than anything else, I suppose.”

Who'd care even if he did?

The book was lost.

That is why it was given to him.

He killed that legacy when he shot Aerys.

And while Jaime doesn't regret it, something rubs him in the wrong way about it that the legacy, the other names, of Arthur Dayne, who used to be his idol, or Duncan "the Tall" are now lost in the pocket of a worn-out agent slash trainer for messed-up teams that even honorable Eddard Stark doesn't seem to put much faith in.

Apparently, legacies can die.

Though the echo of the legacies seems to paint everything lighter and brighter.

Aerys' legacy remained unbesmirched.

No one ever questioned the King, and while Jaime can't blame anyone either, after all, he never meant to tell them otherwise, it _does_ pain somewhat. When you have madness written on the pages, but glory sung about when his name is only mentioned around other agents.

A King he was.

A _Mad_ King.

“You didn’t write in your own entry since," Brienne notes, pulling Jaime out of his thoughts.

“What is there to add, you tell me?” Jaime frowns.

“That you killed Aerys," she replies simply.

Jaime stares at her.

“As my greatest bad? Hm, I thought that Kingslayer was sufficient to highlight that.”

And here he thought that she was one of the few people who'd actually stop singing the Song of the King out of tune.

“No, as… one of your greatest deeds.”

“What now?”

“You told me that you killed him to protect others. That is… not a bad thing.”

A good thing.

His finest act, as Jaime likes to refer to it to himself, if only to himself.

“You should put it down," she adds feebly.

Why is she daring to give him advices again? This is still her boss.

And she is yet again blurring the lines.

“Indeed it makes no difference.”

No one will read it other than him.

He might just as well scribble some more ugly smilies over the pages, like on the back of the maps they used today.

“It does for you.”

“In how far?” Jaime asks.

“You keep reading that book, I've seen it myself. If it didn’t matter to you, you would have thrown it away or would have put it somewhere not to have to look at it. You read it because it matters to you… well… wouldn’t you rather write your own story than have others do it for you?”

Jaime can’t help the smile this time.

That woman, really.

She never fails to surprise him.

“What is it to you?”

“Nothing much, it’s just… well, personally, I always dreaded that others were supposed to write my story for me. I never liked that idea. I reckon we just want to be author in our own stories, right? Might be… too wishful thinking on my behalf, but if I had a chance to do that, if only in private… I would write it down.”

Or else he’ll never close that chapter.

And never start a new one, for the matter.

And Brienne believes, no _knows_ , that he could still tell some fascinating stories, fill some many pages.

“Well, I will think about it,” Jaime says with a grin. “Thanks another time for finding and bringing it by. Some nostalgia can’t harm, can it?”

Brienne offers a crooked smile she knows must look even uglier than her smiles in general are as she hands the book back to him.

“I will head back inside now,” Brienne announces. “Have a good night, Sir.”

“Good night.”

Brienne walks away, the letters written in blood still dancing over her eyes as she sets one foot in front of the other.

That is apparently the other side of the coin, the one that no one got to see.

Jaime glances at the notebook another time, the light of the cellphone’s torch dancing over the leather as though it was made of dragon scales.

And a part of him would like to pick up the pen, in fact, the more he thinks about it, the more he lets that thought happen – because Jaime never let it happen right until this moment.

If he were to put it down… he could write whatever he chose, henceforth. Whatever he chose…

“Not now,” he grunts as his fingers flip to the traitor page almost on their own, as they have done for years now.

**Traitor.**

**Kingslayer.**

Jaime can feel the letters on his fingertips even without brushing over the page.

They are just so familiar.

Because what is there to write after that?

Jaime doesn’t know.

He stuffs the notebook back into his pocket, feeling the familiar weight against his leg.

Perhaps some chapters are just meant to be left unfinished.

Or rather, it is not up to him to finish it.

Jaime puts his cellphone away likewise, allowing darkness to claim him, to make him blind.

Because he can walk in darkness. He has perfected that skill.

And for as long as you don’t see anything in the now pitch-black darkness, you can’t see the brown, once red, letters before you. Just like the scribbled lines in onyx on the other side.

You are just blind.

So long you are blind, you don't have to read the story over and over again, knowing that the outcome won't change any time soon.


	8. Smoke

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The team gets a new mission - and Brienne hopes that this will finally offer them a chance to prove themselves. 
> 
> The hard training has to pay off at some point, right? 
> 
> I suck at summaries.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone, thanks for kudoing, commenting, supporting, and sticking with me despite the long, way too long update time. 
> 
> I am not even kidding when I say that this writer's block is a massive uber-bitch that crept its way into my life and didn't leave since. As you may know, most of my multi-chapter fics have suffered for it, though I am honestly trying my best to somehow push through the low. I am, I really am. 
> 
> I split this up basically into two parts (the other chapter should follow in the next couple of days), but due to the length, I thought it might be better to have them as two chapters instead of one very long chapter. Also, I am still crap at writing fighting scenes, so bear with me. Also, I have absolutely no clue about weapons, let alone bombs. 
> 
> Oh yeah, and we are getting more and more into Jaime's head now as well. :)
> 
> I hope you'll enjoy anyway. 
> 
> Much love! ♥♥♥

“Alright, my intellectually challenged little pests, it seems that we are due a new coup,” Jaime announces in a jovial voice as he walks into the conference room, having told everyone to assemble there earlier that day, and to be on time or else punishment would inevitably follow.

And all know – it will.

And all know – it either hurts, or makes you throw up.

Or is pink.

_… Or all of the aforementioned._

Therefore, all were there on time, some even five minutes early.

Though Brienne finds herself, if strangely so, enjoying that change. Not that she loves the strict treatment, our running till her sides feel as though they were made of fire, but the atmosphere is now differently charged, there is a new kind of energy.

While Brienne knows her team mates are still rather weary of Lannister’s way of going about the training, they seem to begrudgingly accept his authority now – and Jaime, in turn, keeps up with the game to give them any reason to maintain that attitude.

Training seems much more focused now, just like he seems a lot more focused on the task, more focused on the team.

As it appears, the fact that lines blurred among her and Jaime during that more as odd night at the bar and his apartment, unblurred the lines in the training.

“Does that mean we finally get out of here?” Hunt moans almost ecstatically.

Indeed, all have developed more or less intense stages of cabin fever. They have spent days after days without any sort of escape to the outside, no missions, not even a small one, just them, the dust, and Lannister shouting out command after command to push them to their limits and beyond.

Needless to mention that this didn’t improve the interpersonal relationships by any means – because they are now to a point where breathing the wrong way can lead to someone losing his shit.

Just yesterday Theon and Robb, of all people, got into an argument about some comment about Ned Stark that nearly had the best friends almost punch each other in the face, if not for Loras and her intervening before it escalated.

The day before, Ronnet and Loras almost had a fallout over a team task they were meant to do, wherein both claimed the other one had fucked it up. That was when Jaime stepped in and made them sit in the _Naughty Corner_ , as he calls it, which is about as humiliating as it is annoying – because sitting in the _Naughty Corner_ means you have to wear the _Sash of Shame_ , too.

And it’d be a lie if Brienne were to claim that it didn’t get to her yet either. Just the other day, she yelled at Hyle for dropping his gun by accident because his hands got sweaty – normally, she never would have gotten that upset, but Brienne found herself so furious with him that she was that close to hitting him across the face.

Though on that occasion, Lannister actually mockingly encouraged her to do it to hammer it into Hyle’s brain at last to use the talcum powder as they are supposed to, but that he keeps forgetting over and over again.

_Yeah, cabin fever, most definitely cabin fever._

“That means you get a walk around the park, _if_ with little leash, yes,” Jaime confirms, the smug smile plastered on his face.

“Woohoo!” Theon calls out, raising his hands above his head.

“I’d hold back the outcries of joy until you’ve heard what we are to do, Octopussy,” Jaime warns him in an easy tone before he turns around to switch on the big projector which pops up with the specifics of the mission. The blue light flickers over his body as he turns back around to face the team.

The room falls silent as the focus shifts to Jaime alone.

“The Faceless Men division was able to infiltrate an arms dealer organization. They managed to get their hands on some category-two bombs they stole from the _Eyrie Gun Corporation_. Their track was lost for a long while, until the Faceless Men managed to send someone in undercover to see to where those bombs are supposed to be shipped to,” Jaime explains, using the remote to show extra information or enlarge maps and pictures.

_One of the payoffs of being part of the Special Forces is apparently the fancier equipment._

“Turns out Dorne’s mafia is _aching_ for those weapons. Which is the reason why the bombs were transported to King’s Landing first, and are then supposed to be smuggled across the border to Dorne. Hence, we don't have the luxury to wait until they get to the buyer. We have to interrupt this _before_ they cross the border, or else it’s out of our sovereign territory and we no longer have the authority to intervene. Especially since the political climate between Dorne and the rest of Westeros remains… _difficult_ , let’s say.”

Jaime gestures with a grimace, as though he is tossing something away.

That is most definitely an understatement, all know. Dorne has been at quarrel with the Seven Kingdoms for a way too long time already. There was a time of peace, but soon enough, the lack of infrastructure and business ties not being equal to both sides resulted in fights, which soon enough ebbed into gun fights, bomb fights, war.

And there is no sign yet that this is going to change any time soon. To describe the relations as icy is yet again a perfect understatement.

“Tonight, the buyers and the shippers are meant to meet in a secret location on the outskirt of King’s Landing. The undercover agent of the Faceless Men confirmed that the troop from Dorne wants to see if the organization isn’t just full of shit. So they will get to see the store to convince themselves of the _quality_ of the product. Our task is to interrupt that meeting, arrest all involved, and hand them over for interrogation to get the other men behind the organizations… And of course secure the bombs and make sure we don’t blow up the place with us in it. Rather straightforward, is it not?”

 _The first big mission ever since the one that almost got us killed_ , Brienne reminds herself.

Ever since that day, it was no more than small missions, and tons of simulations.

Repeating the procedures over and over again.

Familiarizing themselves with the way they moved, the way they spoke.

Familiarizing with themselves.

As though to knit a strange sort of safety net, woven out of repetition and practice.

But now it seems like Lannister is finally daring to put a little bit of faith in them – and Brienne just hopes, prays even, that they won’t disappoint this time around.

_Or else all hope might be lost after all._

She listens attentively to all of his orders when Lannister takes them through the strategy. Brienne was aching for that to happen, to be honest. Because she now has the feeling that they finally start to work as a team.

Now would be the time to prove it.

Now would be the time to prove it _to him_.

That they are worth it. That they are not just a bunch of egomaniacs incapable of ever forming a team. That they are worth the training, worth the effort he is making.

That they are worth staying for.

“So, pack your bags, put on your gears, and don’t forget the mascara,” Jaime announces, clapping his hands together. “I will give you the call once it’s time, so you better be ready for our candlelight dinner.”

* * *

 

Once evening arrives, they head out, fully equipped, and throughout the ride, Brienne can’t hide the nervousness creeping up her spine, settling uncomfortably in the nape of her neck.

_What if we mess up again?_

_Was the training enough?_

_… Or not?_

While she was thrilled for as long as they got the briefing, the thoughts started nagging at her once Brienne heard the same comments from former days again, of who’s going to beat whom, and one guy shoving the other around as though they were back in high school.

“Tarth, knock it off with bobbing your knee up and down like that. You’ll make a hole in the van,” she can hear Jaime moan. She turns her head to him. After Brienne got into the van last, she had to sit next to him in the back of the car.

_Damn Hyle for pushing ahead, the asshole._

To Brienne’s surprise, Lannister has his eyes closed, his head leaned back, and there is not a single string of worry written across his features. Indeed, he looks like he just _dozed off_ for a moment, if not the entire time. Even now Jaime doesn’t bother to open his eyes, hugging his chest, slouched against the seat.

_How can he be so calm? We are on our first real mission since the debacle!_

“Sorry, just a bit… nervous,” Brienne mutters, trying her best not to let the blush creep up her face. Even if he doesn’t see it, he will surely _hear_ it.

She is just glad that the rest won’t hear anything, because they are busy arguing about who is best shooter now, _loudly so_.

“As you should be.”

That takes her by surprise. She is supposed to be nervous? And here Brienne thought the calm attitude is what she should be craving, should be working for as hard as she can.

“What is that supposed to mean?”

“Being nervous means are aware that this situation isn’t just a game. It means that you take this sincere. And being nervous means that you know you have something to lose, which is a great motivator, I may add,” Jaime goes on to explain.

It took him a while to figure, but now he is certain of that – a man who has nothing to lose is a man who has no reason to fight.

And someone who has no reason to fight should most definitely not fight for the sake of others, should not risk his life for others.

_Because those types of people are only just suicidal – or dumb… or maybe a bit of both._

“But, nervousness itself not being a bad thing notwithstanding, if you keep going like that, you might earn yourself a cramp – _and_ me losing my shit, because you drive me crazy with that noise. And I may warn you, if you annoy me just too much, you’ll do sit-ups in the van,” Jaime huffs.

“Well, not everyone is as calm before a bigger mission as you are,” Brienne can’t help but reply with a grunt. Jaime curls his lips into a smile, eyes still closed, whereas Brienne is yet again shocked for talking back like that, when _really_ , she knows she shouldn’t.

_Lannister seems to bring out the worst in me after all._

“It’s true, not giving a fuck is a talent you have to train hard for,” he muses, seemingly letting her behavior slip for once. “You might want to do it, too, however.”

“Do what?” Brienne asks, blinking.

“Lean back, close your eyes, and relax.”

“I can’t relax short before a gig,” she argues vehemently.

After all, Jaime was the one to hammer it into their heads that they have to take things much more seriously.

That this is no simulation.

_That this is real._

“You _can_ , you just don’t let yourself. Trust me, this actually helps. Right now, your muscles all contract thanks to the tension you build up inside your head and therefore inside your body. That puts strain on your muscles, which leads to mild exhaustion before you even started the mission. If you relax now, you’ll have more energy for when it matters,” Jaime explains to her. “So… sit back, _relax_.”

“I can’t!” Brienne insists.

“Try it,” he argues, not caring about her lamentation. Brienne lets out a soft growl, but then follows through with it anyway.

It can’t harm to try, _can it_?

And even if, well most likely, it doesn’t work, she can prove him wrong.

“If you tell me now that I have to think about a beach or whale noises, then…,” she means to say, though Lannister only groans at her in annoyance, making her swallow up the rest of her little threat before it can even come about.

“No, no such thing. I find whale noises very irritating. Go back over the information I gave you during the briefing or something else that’s necessary for the gig,” Jaime says, his voice leveled. “Call one specific thing to mind, go through it again and again. Concentrate on it. _That_ is focus. Easy enough, wouldn’t you agree? That is the one chance you’ll ever get to have that little tunnel view of yours without running any sort of trouble.”

If she takes after him as much as Jaime fears she does, Jaime reckons he might just as well teach her some of the techniques he figured out for himself over the years.

_Isn’t that what a mentor is supposed to do?_

“Alright…,” Brienne replies hesitantly. She lets out a deep sigh, suppressing any urge to open her eyes again.

Brienne is so used to always having her eyes everywhere that it only dawns on her now just how difficult she finds it to block that reflex out… to let that go. As Lannister said, she has no trouble with the tunnel view while on the job – even if she shouldn’t according to him – but here in the van, unconscious fears of one of the guys pulling on her hair from behind, reacting too late when being asked a question, not hearing something that may be vital, something that may relate to her… they make it impossible for her to smooth the tension out of her shoulders.

And thinking about _that_ , Lannister may really have a point, actually.

Brienne lets out a sigh. Deep down she knows that she has to learn just that, to let go, to forget about all those little nothings that pull her focus away from what is really important.

Thus, Brienne follows through with what the team leader says and tries to call the maps of the building to mind as she leans her head back – and the path they are supposed to take through it first, and indeed she can feel her body relaxing.

Muscle for muscle, the tension is released, like air out of a deflating balloon.

Jaime opens one eye to quickly glance over at her before leaning back again, a smirk creeping up his lips. It’s still a miracle the woman listens to him, but he’ll be the last one to complain.

_Better use the opportunity while it lasts. The woman is too stubborn to yield just yet anyway._

Soon thereafter, the van comes to a halt.

“Okay, you stay here, we’ll walk the rest of the way. Make sure the van is out of sight,” Jaime instructs the dark-haired driver, Bronn.

Jaime worked with him a number of times. The man gets the job done, wants to stay out of trouble at all times, and is also a pain in the ass – but the kind of pain in the ass Jaime can well deal with.

_It’s far better than whispers behind the back by all means._

“As if I didn’t know how to do my job.”

“I still remember that one time where you drove the opposite direction,” Jaime huffs, amused.

“That was because _you_ told me the wrong directions, obviously.”

“ _Obviously_ ,” Jaime snorts with a smirk. “Just make sure you don’t ride off to Silk Street before the gig is over, mind you? Or else I will have to tell my brother that he was _very_ wrong in recommending your services to me.”

“Fine,” Bronn chuckles, if unimpressed. “But once you are done, be sure that this will be my next destination.”

“How does it go? Home is where the heart is? Or in your case – home is where the prostitutes are.”

“Not just prostitutes, but also dancers.”

“Obviously.”

Jaime taps the flat of his hand on the outside of the van before climbing out and shutting the door. Bronn drives away, leaving behind him a cloud of dust, while the group gathers around the team leader in a circle, waiting for instructions.

 _Some things can improve after all, let us rejoice!_ Jaime thinks to himself with a grin. 

“Alright, just remember that if any of you is stupid enough to not cover his ass or that of his team members so that I have to jump in, I will personally behead you right after this is over,” the team leader goes on to say. All nod silently. “Then let’s get over with this and pray to the Seven that you learned _some_ kind of lesson after all.”

After that they make their way over to the storage, moving as silent as cats, flitting across the pebbles and dust with as little sound as possible. And Brienne must say, Lannister had the rights of it training them to walk even when blind. It makes you more confident in your steps. You no longer shuffle your foot in front of your body, fearing for an obstacle to come. You learn how to move your feet across the ground to detect the rises and falls before you even touch the ground.

It makes you more confident in your team.

_In yourself._

Once they reach the back of the building, they split into two groups to cover left and right to work their way to the front, which is dimly illuminated by the headlights of the buyers’ car, revealing six men in total. Three Dornish, three men from Westeros. They are busy in conversation about the prices and the product, from what Brienne can gather at this distance.

Jaime gestures at Robb, who is at the head of the group moving in from the left. The younger man gives a brief nod. Lannister then goes ahead to signal to his team as well.

“We would like to see the product now,” the oldest Dornishman says with a heavy accent. “Our boss doesn’t like waiting – and she’s waited long enough for you to finally get to King’s Landing.”

“Of course, if you followed me,” the dark-haired leader says, gesturing at his “guests” to come with them.

Lannister told them beforehand that, unless circumstances didn’t allow for it, they’d try to take them up once they were inside, since that is their way to make sure that no one is sneaking up on them from inside the building – after it isn’t possible to infiltrate through the sides or the back of the building given the architecture of this place.

“Though that means we also run some danger because we will likely have to take them up while still in close periphery to the bombs. That means we only shoot if necessary, and no one shoots at the missiles, not even close. Our only hope is that we don’t have criminals who want to blow things up out of principle, but out of gain, so we shouldn’t have one of them threatening to blow himself up, along with us,” he told them before they went.

Jaime motions at the team behind him to follow as they round the building.

“You see, Sir, only the best quality. This is the newest technology currently available on the Westerosi market.”

“And this has the impact it takes to achieve what we talked about on the phone?” the Dornishman with raven hair and full beard asks.

The undercover agent from the Faceless Men division pointed out to them that the Dornish mafia group is planning on a big scale explosion around Sunspear, after he overheard a conversation between the buyer and the Dornish three days ago.

It’s supposed to be some sort of payback to the government, led by president Doran Martell, after Doran’s younger brother and diplomat Oberyn had come to King’s Landing to get revenge on the man seemingly responsible for the brutal murder of his sister and her children – only to end up dead himself. The political fuss was quite big not just because of the brutal deaths of both men, but because the Lannisters used to employ Gregor Clegane, the man Oberyn took with him when he died on his crazy vengeance mission. While it couldn’t be proven because of a late autopsy, there are good chances that the diplomat poisoned Gregor.

And if their sources are correct, then this is really just a personal vendetta orchestrated by Oberyn’s lover Ellaria Sand and the rest of her family. Rumor has it that she even drags her teenage daughters into this mafia mess. That does nothing much to help in already complicated political relationship between Westeros and Dorne, which is why the team received specific orders to make this go down as silently as possible.

Brienne keeps a close eye on Jaime to see if he is giving any more cues to follow. It’s odd, really, but she feels more at ease than the last time. Well, “ease” probably being an overstatement, but she is calmer now than she was during the last gig that proved to be a disaster.

_Training seems to pay off after all._

Once the moment arrives, Hyle does as they had it planned beforehand, and tosses a smoke-bomb right at the center of this get-together. What follows is a rush amidst the smoke.

They run through the mist, guns and rifles raised. Shouts ring out from the men they are supposed to take captive, barking out orders to flee, to shoot, to get to the bombs.

Brienne keeps within close periphery to Jaime, as he had told her beforehand, and she could hear Loras moving behind her – as he should. Brienne can see a shadow moving to their left. She calls out to move into the path, now aiming her rifle at the Dornishman who led the negotiations before.

“Freeze!” she yells. As Brienne could see, he has his own gun out and wriggles it around – not very effectively, however. She bows down beneath the thick smoke to kick his legs out underneath him to throw the man off balance.

That is the moment Lannister moves in from the left to bring him to the ground and take the gun from him. Brienne secures the man.

It’s odd, really. She has to rely on her team mates blindly here, but Brienne finds herself doing it.

This feels right.

_This feels **good**. _

And as the smoke fades away, the men they were meant to take up are now all on the ground, secured, like bundles ready to be picked up and brought away.

_This is definitely not like it was the last time._

“Little Wolf, Goldy Locks, Hulk, you three check the building for more intruders. No splitting up, got that?” Lannister calls out as he buries his knee in the leading seller’s back, who does nothing but curse at him, though Jaime completely ignores him.

The three team members nod before heading out.

“The rest of you will work on bringing them to the outside. The van is moving up as we speak,” Lannister says, one finger pressed to the earpiece where he can hear Bronn moaning for not having had any time for a break just yet.

_Seriously, that guy._

Brienne already picks up the man she and Jaime took out together when suddenly Theon speaks up, standing before one of the bombs, “Well, shit.”

“What is it, Octopussy?”

“This beauty here’s switched on, countdown three minutes and twenty-four seconds,” Theon says, bending down to inspect the missile. All eyes are instantly on him, though all remain calm.

_Or try to._

Just because it’s activated doesn’t mean it has to go off. And Theon has done the courses, so he knows how to defuse a bomb if he must.

_Focus._

_Breathe._

“Can you switch it off?” Jaime demands, already getting up.

“… I need time for that,” Theon replies. Jaime grunts, motioning closer.

That is the last thing they needed.

_Because, apparently, time is the one thing we don’t have – time._

“Shit!” the men they took up cry out in unison.

And suddenly, the calm seems to flit away, into the night, leaving them in the dark.

“Did you activate them?” Brienne demands through gritted teeth, grabbing the man by the collar.

“Of course not,” the man spats. “You think I want to die for this? I’m here for the money, bitch.”

“How did you transport them?” Lannister calls out, turning his attention away from the missile over to the man Brienne has struggling against her grip.

“With the car.”

“Did you secure them?” Jaime goes on to ask, his voice as sharp as a knife.

“We had tension belts and everything.”

“Did you keep them in a cool area at all times or were they exposed to temperatures above 90 degrees?”

“What?!”

“Don't tell me you left them in the car, in the summer heat,” Jaime growls.

_Just how stupid can people be?_

“That shouldn’t make a difference,” the man says.

Jaime smacks him in the neck hard enough to make the man shriek like a woman. He grasps the man by the chin to force his gaze on his. “Now listen, you asshole. Those missiles are working with a less intense derivate of wildfire. Heat is what sets those things off _mechanically_ , even without the push of an electronic button, which makes it ever the dumber to ship off to Dorne because they were specifically designed for Northern regions due to the climate, which you could have known if you had not just thought about stealing those things but also how they work. And you dumbasses may just have set them off because you didn’t read the instructions.”

He turns his attention back to his team.

_Now is not the time._

“So now, you guys will take these men to the van. Bronn’s already there.”

“We should just all leave,” Robb argues as he comes down the stairs with the others, having heard the vital bits of the conversation.

“Normally, I would agree, but the problem is that even if we drove off at full speed, those three missiles combined would still hit us. The radius is too big. I’ve checked. All three are ticking. That is unless we manage to defuse the bombs,” Jaime argues, beads of sweat glistening on his forehead. “Octopussy – are you in?”

“Yes,” Theon replies with resolution, nodding his head.

“Good. Problem remains – you guys all only have the basic training when it comes to bomb disposal,” Jaime mutters, his mind running circles.

_This is no good, definitely no good._

Jaime can probably dispose of one himself in the time slot, but not two, same for Greyjoy.

“I can do it,” Brienne speaks up, biting her lower lip.

Jaime tears his head up to look at her for a moment.

_She can’t be serious._

“I know as a matter of fact that you did not do the special training for…,” Jaime means to say, but she interrupts him, “I don’t say I had extra training for bomb disposal, but Goodwin taught me a lot more, if unofficially. He was specialized in bombs. If you can take me through the process, I can do it.”

Like in the obstacle course. If either Theon or Jaime can tell her the directions, she can walk the path, _right_?

Jaime looks at her with an expression she cannot read.

Concern?

Fear?

Anger?

She isn’t certain.

_Not happy, that’s for sure._

“… Fine, you take the one next to me. I will guide you through,” Jaime says at last, running his hand over the back of his head, before he turns to the rest of the team. “The rest, get out, NOW! Stark, report back to the main station for a bomb division. We need some experts here… this way or another.”

“Yes,” Robb calls over his shoulder. After that, the team moves away quickly without another word, knowing that every second counts now. Jaime turns back around to Theon and Brienne.

“And you two are certain,” he says, looking at them with the kind of intensity that makes the fine hairs in Brienne’s neck stand up.

Jaime bites his lower lip.

_Last chance._

“Yes,” both say in unison.

 _And that was the last chance to back out, then_ , Jaime thinks to himself.

“Tarth, I need you to follow every step I tell you to do, understood?” Lannister demands. “And by that I mean that you cannot disobey me. You have to follow the orders without questioning.”

“Yes, Sir,” Brienne replies curtly.

“Greyjoy?” Jaime turns his attention to the red-haired man beside him. Theon offers a stiff grin, “I think I got this. I’ve worked with a similar model in a couple of simulations. If we can get to the implemented security cooling system, we should be good to go.”

Brienne is surprised when Lannister suddenly stands right behind her, breathing into her neck as he removes the lid from the panel.

“Quick tour guide, so listen carefully – because it’s important that we refer to the same cables. Would suck if you blew us all up because you took the wrong cable,” Jaime says, before he goes on to explain the basic construction to her and what cables he means by name. Brienne tries her best to absorb the information as it starts to dawn on her that she just volunteered to defuse a bomb she has never worked on before, with nothing more but the basic knowledge she has of bombs. She knows from extra survival courses how to build small-caliber bombs and explosives out of pretty much anything, but to defuse them? No, Brienne can’t say that this is her field of expertise.

Perhaps her father had the rights of it and this is the aftermath of having lost Goodwin.

Talk about risky behavior in the aftermath of having lost a loved one.

Is she trying to prove something to Goodwin?

To herself?

“Tarth?”

She whips her head around to Lannister.

“Are you ready or daydreaming?” he asks with urgency. “If you can’t do it…”

“I can. Tell me what to do, and so I will,” she stammers, hoping that she sounds less pathetic than she feels like right at this moment.

What about the confidence she felt not long ago as they walked through the smoke?

Has it gone along with the mist?

“Good, I want you to start with the curled black cable and cut it…,” Jaime begins, his voice calm and leveled, as his own fingers keep dancing over the panel. Brienne simply absorbs the information, her fingers moving as though Jaime was pulling invisible strings attached to her limbs. Brienne is way too focused on controlling her breathing, trying desperately to find the ease she had back in the van to keep her body from shaking.

This could be her end.

Their end.

_This could be…_

A single sound.

One tone.

 ** _Beep_**.

Brienne looks up to see Jaime straightening up from his crouching position. She can see his mouth opening and closing as he says something over the radio device, clapping Theon on the shoulder.

Theon’s smile is impossibly broad as he walks outside, probably to catch his breath.

 _No tunnel view – Lannister should be pleased_ , she thinks to herself numbly, but it still feels like a wall is between her and the rest of the world.

Brienne is pulled across that invisible border when she feels fingers enclosing her hand, however. She glances at Jaime quizzically as he rewards her with an easy smile, as though they’d just gone out for some drinks when in fact they just bypassed getting blown up by three bombs.

“Is it that our Maid of Tarth is having a bit of a shock?” he asks. She reckons he is teasing her, but his voice is… _different_.

Sympathetic… caring even.

“How about we get up now and move away from the missiles, hm?” he goes on, his voice strangely soothing, as though he was coaching her through a fit of hyperventilation.

Though Brienne’s only ever had that once, when she was still only just a girl, and Goodwin made her breathe into a paper bag until it passed. By that time he was still in service, and had taken a bullet to the shoulder. No one had told her until he returned from the hospital, but once Goodwin said it, Brienne didn’t know how to breathe – at least until his tender words guided her back to air.

Brienne stands up, her eyes on his the whole time, following Jaime, letting his eyes guide her.

“It’s alright now,” he goes on, his voice even. “We managed.”

Jaime encloses her wrist with his gloved hand to pull hers down – and that apparently seems to break the spell keeping her in stasis, bringing her to shiver slightly against his touch.

“Sorry,” she mutters, blinking as movement starts to come back to her limbs.

“It’s alright. That was… extremer than I had estimated,” Jaime admits with a tensed grimace. “I tend to forget people’s stupidity. One should think that they know how to transport the things they steal. Small wonder they didn’t blow themselves up yet. But you kept a calm head. Not many can pull that off.”

 _We could have been dead_ , he thinks to himself. _And that because of people’s stupidity. It’s one thing to die in service by sacrificing yourself for a higher cause, quite another to die thanks to people being dumbnuts._

They could have been dead.

“No joke?” She asks, looking at him, seeking his eyes, seeking the reassurance, the truth in them.

“No joke,” he says, nodding his head slowly. “I mean, it was reckless, to be sure, but also damn brave, granted that you really only received basic training plus some odd bits. I gotta give you that much.”

Brienne offers a crooked smile.

“C’mon, let’s see about it that Octopussy doesn’t take the whole fame for himself. He’ll only get ahead of himself,” Jaime says, withdrawing his hand from her arm to walk out of the building, stretching his arms and shoulders as he goes to ease out the tension keeping his muscles as caught up as a bowstring.

Brienne shakes her head before gathering herself to follow him back outside, where the rest of the crew, safe for Hyle and Loras who stayed with the criminals in the van, has already gathered around the lean redhead as he goes on to boast about his recent success.

The others clapping her on the shoulder is something Brienne only notes in passing, her mind still too caught up in what just happened, what she just did without second-guessing.

Strangely, Brienne finds herself second-guessing now that it’s already over.

“Well, all in all, I think you only would have died thrice throughout, but that’s by far better than the last time,” Jaime announces in an easy-going voice.

 _Though that is still way too much, way too much_ , he knows. Jaime never had any illusions about the team requiring a lot more training, but it is during moments such as these that you as the captain are made painfully aware that you can train them all you want – it still doesn’t shield them from the dangers out there, hiding behind people’s stupidity, vengeance, and inability to handle explosive missiles.

“Stark? What did daddy-o say?” Jaime goes on, his expression sour for a split-second as he has to talk about Ned Stark.

“My father’s sent out the bomb division. They should be here shortly,” Robb replies. “They’ll also bring extra forces to take them here to prison.”

He nods at the van where the culprits sit with bowed heads, sweaty faces, and fear still written all over their features.

_Serves them right._

“Good,” Jaime says, nodding curtly. “Then we will wait until the clean-up party comes. After that… I suppose I owe you a round of drinks.”

Needless to mention that Jaime can very well use a drink himself, _or two, or three…_

“I thought that it was only for the first actual success,” Ronnet argues with a grimace. Loras nudges him in the side to make him stop talking. “Free drinks, man! Shut your mouth already, will you?”

“Trust me, that _was_ your first real success,” Jaime huffs. “The first time was more of a pitiful performance that didn’t get you killed. So yeah, we’ll go back to the camp, get changed, and then I am in dire need of some alcohol. If you behave yourselves, there might be food for you as well. Depends on whether someone manages to piss me off before it gets to it, though.”

Jaime then walks off to talk to Bronn another time, leaning against the van as he pulls off his leather gloves, eyeing the whole scenery from a bit further away.

“Well, that was a mess,” Bronn comments.

“Tell me about it,” Jaime huffs.

They all could have died in there because people didn’t realize that maybe bombs were dangerous.

 _Seven Hells_ , he had to guide Brienne through defusing a bomb.

And the Seven know how she managed, keeping her cool like that in an extreme situation such as this. Most others would have freaked out, that’s for sure. Jaime knows Brienne has potential, but what is making him uncomfortable about this is that she volunteered so easily. No second passed before Brienne raised her hand to toss her life away.

She has the devotion and talent to be one of the best, but Brienne also has the attitude and mindset of the man Jaime once was, before he became the Kingslayer. And that very knowledge chills him to the bone.

He is scared of looking at his own reflection when he looks at her, and that even though Jaime Lannister is never scared, can’t afford it to be scared.

But it’s no matter now, what was done was done. They are alive now, even if that was anything but the plan he had in mind.

That was not part of the plan. That was not on the maps.

That shouldn’t even be up to debate.

While Jaime knows that there is only so much you can prepare for, it’s still chilling, unsettling even, that people’s lack of knowledge can literally mean the death of them all.

_Madness, addiction, stupidity, it’s the human’s inability to think straight that gets way too many people killed._

“Well, next time I should just drive off on my own. I could have died!” Bronn says, shaking his head. “And I didn't sign up for that.”

“As we all could have. That is our job.”

“Dying’s not my job.”

“No, but doing the things you ought to do at the risk of dying. In case you were unaware of that when you signed up for this profession,” Jaime argues.

“See, and that’s why I rather hang around with your brother. You are always so… gloomy,” Bronn huffs, making a face.

“You like to hang around with my brother because he takes you to Silk Street and because he hooks you up with pretty girls,” Jaime points out to him.

He’s heard those stories from Tyrion often enough – especially when he didn’t want to hear him, because Jaime couldn’t care less about his little brother’s whoring around King’s Landing.

“Yeah, and we could be such good friends if you did the same.”

“But for that you have my little brother, so it shouldn’t bother you too much that we… go different ways regarding the matter,” Jaime argues, offering an easy smile.

“By the way, you’ll be there, too, for the big meet-up coming up soon?” Bronn asks.

Jaime tries hard not to groan.

He almost managed to forget about that annual ordeal.

_Well, just almost._

“That lovely get-together is one of those occasions we cannot escape, already due to the job. So yeah, I am bound to attend,” Jaime replies, his eyes set on the road.

He always tries to forget about it, but Jaime gets the invitation card with engraved golden letters way too early, and they even call him up to reaffirm that he is going to be there.

_As though it mattered to anyone. People talk behind my back whether I am around or not._

Back in the day, Jaime liked those social events around the department. Even what is now an annual torment was something he found himself enjoying, so long he could be around his team, could be around his team leader.

_Obviously before the time he went insane and wanted to cleanse them all with fire._

These days, whatever social gathering he can come up with has a bitter aftertaste to it, though, even without the shitty-tasting, fancy-looking appetizers on silver platters to turn one’s stomach sideways.

However, there is no way of escaping the society, of showing himself every once in a while. If only to show people that he is still alive, still there. If only to put up that act of defiance that is more of a travesty if Jaime was being honest with himself – but he has no intention to.

Or else he would be a man without anything to lose.

 _Yet, it may be more entertaining this time around_ , he thinks to himself, hooking his meager hopes upon that thought instead of the gloom Bronn accuses him of – rightly so. _After all, I can take some certain people along with me to social hell, and they have to do as I say. Isn’t that just wonderful?_

“Oh, seems like the division finally made it,” Jaime says, banishing those thoughts and social gatherings to the back of his mind – they will stay there anyway. So he can bother about them later all the same, once it’s time.

Jaime pushes away from the car again to walk up to the team meant to take it from here. He briefs them to explain just what they did, goes through the procedures like he has done it hundreds of times before.

Routine takes the place of sheer chaos.

The experts move in to make sure about the bombs, the criminals, under much protest, are taken into custody.

The rush of normalcy striking through an exceptional situation.

Where there once was the threat of death palpable with every cable they held in hand, only a field of dust and an old building remains, the bomb experts moving through the landscape like busy ants.

Jaime glances back to the van to see Brienne in conversation with Bronn.

 _What are they talking about_? he wonders, only to ask himself why he would even care.

Something he has no answer to, though.

The oldest Lannister son walks back to the van before he feels his feet moving beneath him.

Brienne’s big blue eyes are instantly on him once she senses his presence nearby.

Yet another constant standing out against the harsh reality of death brushing past them, barely so.

“Seems like you two are getting along?” Jaime asks as he approaches.

“I just asked her what devil must’ve possessed her to pull that stunt. I would have run away, so fast that no one would have seen me go,” Bronn snorts.

“Such a brave fellow you are,” Jaime chuckles softly.

Though Jaime reckons that this is still the smartest option – self-preservation.

“The brave and the bold don’t die fat and old, man. I’m just the driver. I don’t want to give my life for this shit. I just want a good amount of money to spend my last days of earth dying with wine in hand,” Bronn sighs as he exits the car.

“And what are you up to now?” Jaime asks with a frown.

He is not keen on staying here, really.

“We’ll drive in a short while from now. And I _really_ need to… find myself a bush. It’s _urgent_.”

“Ah, if nature calls, you gotta answer,” Jaime agrees, nodding his head in understanding.

“You got it.” With that Bronn walks off, leaving the two standing by the van alone.

“I hope he didn’t touch you inappropriately?” Jaime teases as he leans against the van, relishing the heat of the running car seeping through his skin.

“What?”

“He does that sometimes. I guess I should have warned you.”

“He behaved himself just fine.”

“I reckoned as much. I suppose that if he had done anything, you would have sent him flying to the ground,” Jaime chuckles.

“Sir?” she asks, her voice meek, almost.

“Yes?”

“Can I ask you a question?” Brienne asks, biting her lower lip.

The change in her is quite a peculiar thing, Jaime can’t help but note. One moment Brienne is as tough as a stone, as determined as a team leader with ten years experience should be, but isn’t always, who volunteered to defuse a bomb by only relying on his instruction, and the next she appears like a doe, short before hopping away, back into the woods, out of anyone’s reach, scared of the world closing in on her.

“Sure. Go ahead.”

“Was that _really_ a success?” she questions.

Jaime looks at her quizzically.

_What’s that supposed to mean?_

Brienne licks her lips, before she goes on to explain, “It’s just… last time you said it was one, only to tell me later on that it wasn’t. I just want to know if… if we did it better at last.”

Brienne just has to know. She can’t have the same situation back in the Dragonpit all over.

“That was a success indeed,” Jaime tells her with an easy smile. “A greater success than I thought was possible at this point, but… the team proved to be better at its job than could be estimated. That is one of the few things I am glad to be proven wrong about.”

“… And what does that mean to _you_ now?” Brienne asks quietly.

“A flash of hope, somewhere in the distance, that you aren’t just a pile of shit for a team,” Jaime replies with a roll of his shoulders, but then his eyes drift back to the rest of the team and the leader of the bomb division signing at him that they can go.  

_A success indeed, if only a single one, on a long, long, **very long** way to go, still. _

“I think we can go back to the mansion now. Would be a pity if we missed out on the drinks,” he adds, before hollering at Bronn to stop pissing to get behind the steering wheel. He climbs into the van to resume his seat. Brienne climbs in after him to sit down next to him – and oddly enough, she doesn’t feel as anxious about it anymore.

Perhaps it’s a thing of perspective, really. Looking back at a situation that almost got you killed tends to shrink things to a small size that used to give you anxiety.

“Did you still have a tunnel view?” Jaime asks quietly, almost privately this time.

“No, not really. I mean, I was focused, but… no tunnel, no,” Brienne tells him with a frown. It felt different, a new kind of focus, really. While Brienne always thought that blurring out everything around her would bring her focus, disposing the bomb under Jaime’s guidance was something entirely different.

“Good. That’s the impression I got, but it’s better to ask anyway,” Jaime says, closing his eyes as he leans back. “It’s not like I can look into that stubborn head of yours.”

Because no matter how well Jaime can read her most of the time, she tends to surprise him every day anew, and Jaime can’t say that there are many people who manage to surprise him. Most folks are awfully predictable. You can play them like an instrument. He’s done that for years, learned the song by heart.

But Brienne of Tarth is quite a different kind of person. When you think you got her figured out in all detail, she does something you didn’t see coming in the least. A song that keeps changing, keeping you from learning the harmony behind it.

And that is another thing that keeps Jaime worrying, if only privately.

That woman is a storm – and he has to be able to calm that storm when it’s needed, to protect her from burying herself underneath her own waves.

“Are you trying to get focus again or what’s the matter?” Brienne asks, looking at him slouched in the seat, eyes closed, voice as light as a feather, as though it never affected him.

Sometimes Brienne really wished she had his attitude. More often than she’d like to admit.

“Nope, I just want to relax a bit,” Jaime sighs, shifting in his seat. “That was strenuous enough for a day.”

Jaime can run the whole day without breaking much of a sweat, but the strain that comes with the fear of losing, the fear that people under his protection, however dumb or mulishly stubborn they may be, is draining his muscles of all their energy at once.

And it’s ever the more straining not to let that show.

_Because they shouldn’t know that you worry. If they know you worry, they feel fear, and if they fear, they lose trust in themselves and in you as the leader. Vicious cycles everywhere, the little bitches._

Brienne would want to do the same thing, close her eyes, relax, doze off, because she feels like she just ran a marathon, but the adrenaline is still rushing her system, making her fingers tremble at the mere thought of cutting those cables, the fear of doing it wrong that she held back while focusing on nothing but Jaime’s voice and what was before her.

“By the way, if you want to call up your father or so, you can just go to my office and use the phone there,” he goes on to say, which surprises Brienne perhaps even more than the calmness of his voice. “While you can’t give any details, I reckon you may want to speak to him.”

“Oh, uhm… thanks.”

“That’s the bonus for being a brave little soldier so that we didn’t end up dead.”

The ride back to the mansion is more of a rush, stripes of darker growing colors whooshing by the window as Bronn drives back at high speed.

After a quick shower at the mansion, Brienne digs through her small wardrobe, which mostly consists of army boots, muscle shirts, and cargo pants, to fish out the few decent things she brought along. Brienne settles with dress jeans and a plain button-up shirt.

She leaves her room, her hair still damp, as she makes her way to Jaime’s office, which is unoccupied. Presumably he, too, is still getting changed. Brienne reckons she might just as well use the moment of privacy to call her father, so she picks up the receiver and starts to type the number, waits.

But after a few beeps, it becomes apparent that he is not at home. The voicemail starts to run.

Brienne sighs, not sure why she feels relieved about that – because she shouldn’t be relieved about not hearing his voice after such an experience, yet, here she is, happy to be able to simply leave a message.

“Hey, dad, it’s me. Uhm, I just wanted to leave you a message to… to say that I am doing fine and that you need not worry. It’s… I think it’s best if we talked about some many things once I am through the training. I will call you as soon as I can. Love you. Bye.”

Brienne hangs up, then, blinking a few times. Shouldn’t she have mentioned what happened today, even without giving the details? Instead, she talked about the camp the same way she used to speak about summer camp when Brienne didn’t want her father to worry about her – because she didn’t make any friends yet again, despite his efforts, and she kept up the masquerade all the way through the phone call, only to rush off to cry her eyes out.

 _Maybe still the aftermath of the shock_ , Brienne thinks to herself. _Or maybe it’s for the best anyway. Why have him worry about something that is over now anyway, right? I am alive and well – and isn’t that all that matters?_

A part of her would like to curl under the covers right now and call it a night, but another part of her is almost shouting at her to finally get a move instead of lingering in the past maybes.

So Brienne lets out a long sigh before exiting Jaime’s office, in the hope that she manages to leave those thoughts creeping across her mind like smoke behind herself.

They won today – and that ought to be celebrated, right?

You don’t almost end up killed by a bunch of stolen missiles.

Just like you don’t end up surviving it very often.

So yes – Brienne is in dire need of a drink, a distraction, something to focus on outside herself.

And the team’s company coupled with a few glasses of Scotch might be just that, a way out of the smoke. 


	9. Toss

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaime takes the team out for some drinks. 
> 
> Some things don't ever seem to change. 
> 
> While others do. 
> 
> What doesn't change is my inability to writer good summaries.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone!
> 
> Thanks for sticking with me, for not abandoning this fic despite the long update times, for kudoing, commenting oh so nicely and encouragingly, and all the amazingness you reward me with. 
> 
> I hope you'll enjoy this chapter - I know that there are obviouslys similiarities in terms of set-up, but the idea is really to show that *something* has changed, and I thought it might be a nice *measure* to have that be shown through a parallel situation. 
> 
> Any-way, I really hope you'll like it. 
> 
> Much love! ♥♥♥

Brienne makes her way back outside to wait for the others to come, pushing the negative thoughts of the phone call away, out into the night, shakes them out as she keeps shaking out her limbs to ease the tension out of them.

_One should think that women take longer to get ready, but apparently not with **this** bunch. _

Brienne sighs, leaning against the van, relishing the calmness of the night approaching. It’s odd, really, how even the mansion keeps shifting in shape once darkness engulfs it. Suddenly you hear that life is there, when it normally looks like wasteland consisting of dust, dry grass, their sweat, and Jaime’s shouts ringing over the empty fields with sunglasses and the threat of the Sash of Shame on his lips. There are chirrup of the crickets, the soft hissing of the ground as the hot air moves upwards, high into the air, the rustling of dry leaves in the small wind they are praying for during the day to no avail.

But what’s perhaps even odder than the mansion shifting is that normalcy seems to have them right back, when in fact today was anything but ordinary.

She disposed a bomb today, not knowing what she was doing, if not for Jaime guiding her through it.

She could have died today.

Back when they were still by the house where the bombs were situated, Brienne could feel that chill in her bones, the thoughts flitting across her mind how she didn’t call her father for a few weeks already, how she didn't tidy up her apartment, didn’t water the plants before she left for the next training session at the mansion, that she didn’t visit Goodwin’s grave ever since they buried him. It came washing over her as she stood by the van, having casual small-talk with Bronn, barely listening to a word the man spoke to her, even though it didn’t come to her so long Jaime was around her.

And now here Brienne stands, ready to celebrate, ready to drink.

But then again, perhaps that is the one way of going about it?

What’s the sense in bathing in a fear that only applies to the past now?

They didn’t die. They made it. They managed. Jaime said it. And she repeated it to her father via voicemail.

So where is the sense in wallowing in the past, in the fear she felt back then?

At some point Brienne feels a strong urge to ask Jaime how she is supposed to feel about this. Relieved, happy, proud, fearful, depressed, impressed? She just isn’t sure what to make of that turmoil raging deep within her. But then again, that thought in itself is utterly ridiculous, so she tosses it away as she kicks a stone away, right into the darkness of the night.

_Jaime Lannister is probably not the right address to turn to for these matters._

“You’re early!”

Brienne almost jumps at the sound – she really didn’t catch Jaime approaching from the Gods know where.

“Seems that I finally got you by surprise,” he chuckles softly, his eyes gleaming in the darkness.

“Seems… like it,” she replies slowly, tapping her fingers against the hem of her trousers.

“I guess the guys are still busy smudging on some make-up, huh?” he laughs. “I am pretty sure Little Griffin Shit uses lip gloss.”

“I doubt it.”

“I don’t,” Jaime snorts, amused, leaning against the van with a sigh. “You made your phone calls?”

“I left a message.”

Jaime nods slowly. “You try again tomorrow to call him.”

Brienne’s lips curl into a small smile. Normally, they don’t get to make too many phone calls while in the intensive training

“Are you going to take us to the Dragonpit again?”

Because Brienne would rather not – though she will not put that forth to Jaime. She knows that it’s a rather big gesture that he takes them out after their first actual success, so she won’t be foolish enough to complain about something she was hoping for all this time.

“How boring would _that_ be? No, no. Tonight, we are going to go to a place with much more class.”

“A bar,” she concludes.

“You bet.”

“Will you take them to the one where we… _met up_?” Brienne asks, biting her lower lip. While she is still glad that they managed to get through most of it without the awkwardness, there are those moments when she has to think about him under the shower, pouring out his heart as the water kept pouring out of the shower head.

It always reminds her of that other man who is normally not seen by the public, ever.

_The broken man._

“I may be foolish at times, but I am not entirely stupid,” Jaime snorts, leaning his head back. “And I believe I am banned on entering that pub ever since the show I gave there.”

“Might be.” Brienne rolls her shoulders. “I can’t say I would blame him.”

“Yeah, no, he’d have any reason. Gladly, my family is one that consists of various degrees of alcoholics, so I know all the bars in King’s Landing, pretty much. I picked a good location, fret not,” Jaime replies, winking at her.

“What makes it a good location?”

“What would you think if you were to make an educated guess?”

“They serve good Scotch, I assume?”

“Damn straight!” Jaime laughs. And Brienne can’t help but think to herself that he has quite a charming smile, once it is free of the layers of sarcasm and scorn. It actually reaches his bright eyes. It reflects himself, the person he rarely lets break out, break free.

“So? Calmed down after that adventure?” he goes on to ask, pulling Brienne out of her thoughts back to him looking at her.

While she can only make up his contours in the darkness, his voice makes her fairly certain of the concern that must be written across his features, reflect in his eyes.

“I, uhm… sure. I will admit that it was… _shocking_ in many ways, but this will not be the last time we run into such a situation, right?”

That is what they prepare for, what they _have to_ prepare for – that life is only just a step away. That death is your constant companion, like your shotgun or rifle that you carry from one mission to the next. That this is what the job demands – and that if you can’t handle it, you are not made of the stuff it takes to be one of the Special Forces.

If you want to work that job, you have to accept death into your life.

You have to find a balance between having to make sure to survive and being willing to sacrifice your life for the team, the mission.

_A dance, almost. If a macabre one._

“Well, that was rather specific – most handlers are not that entirely stupid in handling bombs of that level of destruction with so little care, but bombs short about to explode or actually exploding? Yeah, no, you’ll have plenty of that throughout your career. No worries.”

“I thought so,” Brienne says, nodding her head.

“I already petitioned to send you all through another course of bomb disposal, above the basic level. Just so that all are on a similar level. I thought we could wait with that until we’ve gotten through that training block, but apparently, bombs are _en vogue_ thanks to the Dornish freedom fighters slash mafia fighting for anything but freedom.”

“Oh, that’s good.”

“Only you would find extra-courses good. I should have known,” he snorts.

“Well, I rather learn about something instead of just being tossed into such a situation again.”

“… I didn’t mean to toss you,” he mutters, not meeting her gaze, and Brienne is certain that this hit him on a personal level in all those ways he’d never admit it.

“That’s… that’s not what I meant,” Brienne insists hastily.

She didn’t mean to blame him for it – Jaime couldn’t know and Brienne said she could do it. He gave her a chance to turn away and leave with the others.

“Tarth, no need to be upset. I get that, and even if you were to believe that this was my intention, I am not here to prove you wrong or make myself appear more likeable,” he tells her in that sort of voice that is all about covering up, smudging something else on top of the actual message. “That’s just the way it goes. Part of the idea is that I toss you into those situations, more or less prepared. Not always do we have the luxury of such prep-up. We’ll keep getting tossed, granted that this team continues to exist and that someone doesn’t get us killed. Both of which I cannot rule out just yet. But the tossing itself? That’s one of the few constants of the job. I try my best not to toss you too far or too unexpectedly, but… it will happen.”

 _You get tossed into the cold water, ready or not_. Aerys told them that in the beginning of the training as well, Jaime can still recall. Later on, he thought that this was perhaps one of the bigger truths his mad team leader ever said – the job is the ocean, and they just get tossed right into it. Stormy sea right ahead, ready to sweep you off your feet and drown you if you don’t know how to stay afloat in the storm.

You never know what driftwood is swept to the shore, you never know if it isn’t you who’s getting swept to the coast.

And perhaps the most sickening thing about it to Jaime is that he is the one tossing people overboard, right into the restless sea of no return. Back when he was Aery’s right-hand man, it didn’t dawn on him, really. It was more of a game, and Jaime was just a very lucky bastard that only Aerys went under his watch, drowned in the endless ocean thanks to his toss.

“I am aware.”

“Of course you are.”

“Oh, the, the others are coming,” Brienne stammers.

 _Saved by the bell_ , she thinks to herself, only to feel bad for having relief wash through her due to that very circumstance.

“Took them long enough,” Jaime huffs, pushing away from the van, his masquerade-ish smile perfectly back in place. “Ladies, you all look so pretty in your going-out dresses!”

All climb into the van under much chattering, a static noise Brienne just sinks into, to blur out all the rest.

Gladly, the ride to town doesn't take that long, so soon enough, they arrive at an old-fashioned pub down Eel Alley reading _The Guildhall_ in bold, green letters. Brienne is positively surprised that the bar itself is less of a joint than she feared it to be. Dark wooden beams, bar stools with worn red leather, a tiny dancefloor off to the right of the antique bar, and soft jazz music humming over the loudspeakers.

Yes, that is _much_ more to Brienne’s liking than a dance club.

“Alright, before you all escape from your dearest boss, we will do things the proper way for once and make a toast. Can we agree to that?” Jaime asks as they head inside.

“So long you pay?” Ronnet snorts.

“I will take that as a yes, then. Order whatever girly drink is to your liking – and get going, my throat is parched.”

All make their orders and the bartender is quick enough to slide the glasses across the table.

“So, I think it’s time to raise our glasses,” Jaime begins, holding up his Scotch. The rest of the team mimic his gesture.

“Well, I would say you earned yourself a toast for not screwing up, not getting us killed, and not letting the bombs blow up, also known as the _Holy Trinity of How Not to Fuck Up_ ,” Jaime announces, holding up his glass. “So let’s raise our glasses to not having died today!”

“Cheers.”

They clank the glasses together before taking a sip.

And Brienne must say that the drink doesn’t just taste better because of the apparent higher quality, but that it tastes different because the mood has changed.

It’s not like they are suddenly best friends, but it’s less tensed, _a lot_ less tensed, no longer so much of a trying to get away, no longer a quest to escape, flit away. And the growing ease seems to melt on the tongue along with the melting ice in her glass of Scotch.

Even though Hyle and Ronnet are instantly fighting over who gets to play darts first.

_Men – they are all just children in the end._

Not that this is anything new – or something Brienne disapproves of. She rather has those two at the periphery. If Jaime is right with what he told her, she may have to put some distance between her and them.

It’s a process, after all. Some teamplay tasks are not going to make them friends, let alone good colleagues or team mates, Brienne is aware of that.

However, the first tender steps were made, and they continue to be made. The conversations seem much easier and less forced, sitting next to Loras, Robb, and Theon, though most of the talk consists of Theon parading himself for today’s success.

_Not that this is anything unexpected, though._

“… You know you are just taking up all the credit, right?” Loras snorts, taking another sip from his beer.

“In contrast to you, I was useful today,” Theon chimes.

“ _In contrast to you_ , I am useful _every_ day.”

“You go on believing that.”

Robb rolls his eyes. “Guys, be peaceful. I don’t want to play referee for you two all the time.”

“We are peaceful, _mom_ , we just enjoy a good old disagreement,” Theon laughs.

“You just enjoy competing.”

“Which is healthy, so scientists found,” Loras argues.

“What scientists?” Theon grimaces, to which the other man only rolls his eyes. “The scientists from the articles you never read because the words are too long and complicated for you.”

“You can bitch all you want, I rocked today.”

“And yet again, you are glossing over that it wasn’t just you who disposed the bombs,” Loras argues in a sing-song.

“But I caught it first that the countdown was going down, and dispose one, which is still one more than you did.”

“You drag that out all you want. Just wait for the next mission, man,” the other man snorts, running his fingers through his hair as he leans back against the seat.

“Bring it on, man.”

“You guys are annoying.” Robb shakes his head with a sigh.

“You just feel the baby blues, mate,” Theon says, patting him on the shoulder.

“No, I don’t.”

“You still have to tell me when you’re going to quit the job to rock the baby, while your lady wife and doctor earns the living for the three of you,” Theon keeps teasing, which seems to fuel Robb’s anger.

“That’s _not_ going to happen,” he insists.

“You say so now. We both know Talisa’s got you wrapped around her little finger. I mean, it ain’t a big surprise, considering that you eloped with her to marry her in all secret, making your parents want to lynch you, still.”

“Talisa and I already talked about this and we agreed that I should keep with the program,” Robb grounds out.

Small wonder that he insists, Brienne thinks to herself, listening attentively without commenting overtly, though.

The Starks have been very devoted to the department. Almost all Starkmen served. In fact, if you don’t have any valid excuse, it’s predestined that you work for the department at least for a couple of years.

While it was already a scandal to break the engagement with one of Walder Frey’s daughters to escape with Talisa to get married in all secret, it seems to attack Robb’s pride to even consider not following through with that family tradition. He likely got that hammered into his brain since he was a small boy, or so Brienne imagines.

“Yeah, yeah, give it a few more months. Isn’t it that she earns more than you, now that she is working in the private clinic?” Theon asks, though both know the answer to that one already, which is seemingly the only reason why the red-haired man asks in the first place.

“We don’t have money problems,” Robb grumbles.

“Rumor has it that your old man blocked your trust fund,” Loras adds.

“What rumors?” Robb asks, making a face.

“Dude, if you still believe that your life isn’t getting monitored by all around you, you are living under an illusion. Everyone is talking about you after that whole shenanigan with the Frey daughter you ditched.”

“I formally and thoroughly apologized. It was not my intention to harm her.”

“As if that was gonna set the record straight,” Loras huffs.

“She understood,” Robb insists.

“I don't think Walder did, though, huh?” Loras laughs.

“I don't care about Walder Frey’s hurt feelings, that old, lecherous bastard.”

“No, but your daddy-o because that means he’s now pissing at your mom’s company in the Riverlands, that survival camp thing. Whatever,” Loras argues.

“How comes you know all that? _I_ didn’t even know about that and we were practically raised as brothers?” Theon questions, nudging Robb in the side for not telling him about that until now. The other man just gives him a stern look before turning back to Loras, “Seriously, how do you know that shit?”

“You are aware who my relatives are? I get that smudged in my face all the time thanks to my sister and my grandmother.” Loras rolls his eyes, letting out a long sigh.

“Does she still host that gossip magazine?” Theon asks. “What was it again? _Thorn in Westeros’ Side_ or something?”

“She only rarely writes articles, but she still owns the company and bosses everyone around until the day she dies,” Loras replies, nodding his head. “So yeah, I am bound to listen to all that crap – including yours.”

He gestures at Robb before taking another sip from his drink.

“ _Even if so_ … Both Talisa and I earn money, we know how to provide for ourselves – and for the child. Talisa even has enough free time to work at the normal hospital for a few hours each week to help them out,” Robb goes on to say. “So we are _really_ fine.”

“Your girl is a saint. You really don’t deserve her,” Theon sighs, shaking his head. “Like seriously. You really don’t deserve her.”

“Isn’t that too much stress for her?” Brienne asks with a grimace.

“Hm?” Robb looks over to her with a frown. “No, not really. It’s still early in the pregnancy, and she’s already working reduced hours there. She says she needs the action.”

“As I said, your lady wife has it all under control,” Theon exhales, shaking his head.

“She was pretty mad that they didn’t want to put her on full schedule, despite this being so early on in the pregnancy,” Robb chuckles softly.

“I guess she just doesn’t want any extra credit. I mean, so long she can work the normal schedule?” Brienne argues. Robb nods with a smile. “That is what she keeps saying. The funny thing is that the people are just really fond of her and that is why they do it.”

Brienne leans her head back slightly, rolling the empty glass between her fingers.

She is happy for Robb and Talisa, that’s not it, but baby talk always makes her somewhat uncomfortable.

Because once that topic arises, Brienne always hears her father’s voice in the back of her head when she was still younger and even more rebellious, wanted to break out and away, particularly after that whole debacle with Ronnet.

Her father always wanted Brienne to have a settled life on Tarth, to continue the “family legacy,” which was the equivalent to getting married and having enough children to fill Evenfall Hall with endless blubbering, gurgling, and giggling. 

 _But if you join such a profession, you will have no time for the family_ , he would tell her again and again, and Brienne only ever retorted in anger that maybe she didn’t need the time to build a family, or that she may just as well do that once she retires from the job. Back then, it seemed awfully important to her to get this job, to prove it to everyone that the scorn she got was unjustified.

_Talk about rebellious children._

Because, deep down, though Brienne would never say so out loud, there was and perhaps still is a part of her that likes the idea of family life. Of a settled life.

 _Or perhaps it just seems so much better now that I am eating dirt half the time as I make push-ups in the dust_ , she thinks to herself.

So now it is the case that when the topic turns up, Brienne inevitably has to think about what she gave up on, despite the fact that she told her father that she’d still have time for it once she retired – because, sure, she will have the _time_ , but no _partner_.

Brienne knew that even before joining the profession that men had their dear trouble seeing her as, well, a woman. A dateable woman. Now that she has been working that kind of job for a while, it became even more difficult to find someone who understands her, her passion, who appreciates her as a person, and isn’t intimidated by how she looks and acts like – and how she takes out criminals bigger as her on a daily basis.

To her understanding, nothing much is going to change about that in the near future, however, even if she were to quit the job all of a sudden.

But how do you tell your father that? That the life he wishes you to have because, probably, deep down, he knows that you want that even when you deny it again and again, is no option for you?

Then it seems much easier to put the job first. That’s good enough a reason to say that you don’t have children and won't ever have them.

Even if that makes you uncomfortable pondering the what ifs now out of reach once you hear about happy families with children to fill the halls with.

“Alright, I need another drink,” Brienne sighs, pulling herself back to the present and away from Evenfall Hall and her father’s gleaming eyes.

_Seems like the world is one of constantly repeating itself after all – because isn’t that whole set-up oh too familiar?_

“And you are sure you want to enter the lion’s den?” Theon chuckles, chugging down some more of his beer.

_Seemingly not as familiar after all._

“The what?” She frowns.

“Hm? Lannister has been lurking by the bar the whole time.”

“Like last time,” Loras snorts. “Some things never seem to change.”

“I can also come with you, if you are scared of him,” Theon teases – he seems to be very much up for that thanks to the bombs not blowing up also thanks to him.

“Oh, shut your mouth and drink your beer, hotshot,” Brienne grunts, rolling her eyes.

“Talk about bossy women,” he laughs. “And she called me hotshot, how sweet of her!”

“Just that neither sort of women want to hit on you, man,” Loras sighs with a smirk.

“I have enough sweethearts.”

“Do they all work down Silk Street?” Loras teases.

“Hey, I don't discriminate peopled based on their profession.”

“I bet you appreciate their profession a whole lot because that means you get laid at least every now and then.”

“As I said, I am getting myself a drink, right now. You are no longer bearable,” Brienne chuckles, waving at them.

“You’ll be fine, though?” Robb asks now with more sincerity.

_Yeah, some mild changes at last._

“What? You think I am more scared of the lion in the bar than I am of the lion making us run till we hurl?” Brienne huffs.

In fact, Brienne is far less scared of the public Jaime than she is of the private Jaime.

Once you know that something is just a masquerade, then it is only that – a thing, a theatrical act. However, once you get to know someone in a so very personal way, you face the reality that the man you wanted to see the bad in is not at all that bad, just like you have to face the reality that idols are false idols, how names can be haunting, can ring empty.

Getting to know such a person can have some many masquerades falling.

And deep down, Brienne fears that some of her own may keep falling as well.

“True again.”

Brienne walks over to the bar, shaking her head, reminding herself to stay confident – or else Jaime will instantly know that the fine hairs in her neck are standing up.

_Though then again, he likely knows anyway._

Perhaps it’s epic irony that Jaime Lannister is so profound in reading other people, but quite miserable at reading himself.

“Tarth,” he says, nursing his drink, giving her a lazy smile without turning his head in her direction.

“Lannister,” she replies curtly.

“Seems like everyone is having a good time,” he says, letting his head wander around a bit.

“Is there any certain reason why you keep by the bar?”

“The lady wants a Scotch, thanks,” Jaime says to the bartender, before turning his attention back to Brienne. “You were saying?”

“Why are you hanging out here all alone?” she repeats, biting her lower lip as she sits down next to him.

Some things change, some things are still the same.

Because that very setting is very familiar.

 _Let’s see if there is any change to that as well._ Brienne thinks to herself. _Though I won't hold my breath for it._

“You are _never_ alone at a bar. There is some people drinking, dancing, well, if you can call _that_ dancing, and sweating… very much… ew…,” Jaime says, his voice trailing off, nodding at the small dancefloor that is now occupied by a few of the other guests that arrived over time – plus Hyle and Ronnet.

“I just meant to say that maybe you’d want to join your team.”

“Hey, they stayed for the toast, that is more than last time, and more than I ever expected. I am a humble man. I take what I get,” he argues, rolling his shoulders with that faux sort of smile that makes Brienne’s skin crawl regardless of the fact that she knows it to be a lie.

“Right,” she snorts.

“No one wants to hang around with the teacher, Tarth. I mean, I bet you were always _totally_ close with your teachers back in school… but that doesn’t apply to most other people,” he laughs, taking a sip from his drink.

“I was _not_ the teacher’s pet,” Brienne grumbles, only to quickly lower her gaze as the bartender returns with a fresh glass of Scotch for her.

“Thank you,” she tells the man, who whooshes off at once to serve the next guest by the bar.

“I did _not_ say that. You really have to learn about those nuances… I will make a mental note to train you… Anyway, I just said that I am fairly sure that you were eager to be around the teachers during the free time – if you think that I should sit with the rest of them to create the most marvelous of awkward silences, because that is what happens when the boss wants to be buddy-buddy with the gang,” Jaime explains.

“I'm just saying. You did all that team forming exercises…,” she says, her voice trailing off, but Jaime interrupts her before she can go on any further, “Because that is what you are meant to be – a functioning team. That doesn’t mean you have to be buddy-buddy with _me_ , either one of you. And look at you, you guys get along oh so well now, don't you? Why destroy that by dragging the teacher into it?” he argues, shaking his head.

 _That woman really has to learn some lessons about life_ , Jaime thinks to himself with a snort. Though he guesses he can’t blame her, really. She is the naïve type after all.

“I’m just saying that maybe that’d help with the bonding. I…,” she means to stay, but then stops herself. “I will shut up now because I am overstepping the boundaries.”

He laughs, surprised at the fact that she seems to have learned something about life by now after all. “I am so proud when my pupils realize and correct their own mistakes so I don't have to bother. But you get a bonus. You are a bit tipsy.”

“I am _not_ tipsy.”

“Of course you are. I can hear the soft lull towards the end,” Jaime chuckles. “Which is quite endearing, by the way. Makes you appear less robotic.”

“My speech is fine,” she hisses, taking a quick sip from the drink as she lets the words wash over her tongue another time.

_Endearing… Endearing?! Where does **that** come from? _

“You even start a fight over the fact that you are drunk, Seven Hells. All have been drinking. I have been drinking. So we are all a little tipsy. _Very_ tipsy in some cases,” Jaime says, nodding over to Hyle who is sluggishly moving his hips to _dance_ with a girl, more or less. “Yeah, some men should _not_ be dancing.”

“He’s never been good at it in the first place,” Brienne blurts out saying as she watches Hyle’s, let’s generously call it _dance moves_ , even if they couldn’t be further away from rhythm or apparent skills of coordination.

“How would you know?” Jaime asks, obviously not missing that tiny detail she just let slip. Brienne has to try hard not to roll her eyes at herself for just spilling that out. She wants to keep the personal apart from the job as far as that’s possible after she got dragged into… so much already.

_Well, so much to that yet again._

Right now Brienne would rather have a repetition of what happened at the Dragonpit, to be honest, because this goes down a lane she doesn’t want to take by any means.

“Huh? Oh… that was… I saw him at the club before, some years back,” Brienne replies quickly, she knows it came out _way_ too quickly.

“Please tell me that you and he weren’t a couple,” Jaime says, making a face of disgust.

“We were _no_ couple!”

“So one-night stand? Shaking it up with the Hulk to check out his zucchini?”

“What?! _No_.”

“Ah, but you dated,” he concludes.

Perhaps she really should have changed tactics by staying away from the “lion’s den” as she was advised to do.

“You are aware that _you_ are overstepping the boundaries again?” Brienne points out to him, hoping that this will keep him at bay, after all, he was big about those speeches regarding not overstepping the personal boundaries as well.

“You are aware that you just confirmed my theory?” he snorts as he takes a drink.

“I did not confirm anything!”

“You keep cementing it now.”

“I am not.”

“Tarth, I know that you two briefly dated. You think that idiot’s never mentioned it?” Jaime argues, shaking his head.

“I told him not to…,” Brienne mutters, only to hear him laughing yet again.

_Fuck._

“… And now I definitely cemented it,” she adds, burying her head in her hands as realization hits her that he only kept asking to make her affirm it herself.

“As I said, I will add that to the list of things to still teach you. It’s a handy skill to know how to get people to tell you all of their little secrets,” Jaime chuckles softly. “And you are a bit tipsy after all, hm?”

“So what? Will you report us now?” she huffs, though Brienne obviously knows that he wouldn’t get anywhere with that even if he tried. They never had a relationship whatsoever. It was only ever just dating.

“First of all, dating is not against the rules. Secondly, I don't care for who you engage with even _beyond_ dating. You could be having your sweet time with Octopussy for all I care – so long it doesn’t affect your job, I personally have no objections and neither do I feel like I have a right to have any so such judgments.”

“The department may have a different perspective on this,” Brienne huffs.

_That’s **not** exactly how they teach you in the introductory courses. _

“The _department_ is full of shit, in case you didn’t know yet. You wouldn’t want to know just how many colleagues are fucking behind closed… and open doors. Sometimes it feels like the entire department should be moved down Silk Street. Seven Hells, some of them are engaged, married, with kids – and no one gives a shit about it.”

_If only people finally started just minding their own fuckin’ business._

“They kept telling us in the preparation that this wouldn’t be tolerated. _Especially_ in the Special Forces,” Brienne argues.

“They have to make up special rules for us. _Special_ Forces – _special_ rules. Makes sense, I suppose, but that whole catalog of rules presumes that you are dumb enough to have the higher ranks figure out what is going on in your bedroom in the first place. So long you are smart enough not to spew it right to their faces – what are they going to do? Keep vigil by your bed? I don't think so. Things get complicated for other reasons, but not the sex necessarily.”

“So long no feelings are involved, you mean.”

“That is what can get you into trouble, yes, because that may affect your decision making. But sex alone? You are all adults, more or less,” Jaime argues. “Because you still act like children most of your time, but still.”

 _Just because folks like **me** can’t make the cut doesn’t mean others are unable to do it_ , Jaime thinks to himself, though he knows better than to say such a thing out loud.

“And it’s always rich coming from Robert Fuckin’ Baratheon that he of all people reinforces that policy that much as of late. You’d have no idea how many employees and even _lady officers_ he’s banged on his desk. The biggest secret about it still being how that desk holds his weight.”

_Or how the women don’t break beneath that fat ass._

“Well, _I_ couldn’t do that,” Brienne says, barely moving her lips apart as she speaks.

Why is she even saying that right now?

“I already reckoned you are the type who can’t do sex without feelings involved. You get emotional over being called tipsy,” Jaime snorts, thankfully keeping his tone light and casual. “In any case… real talk though? _I_ am the last one who gets to judge people’s relationships, let’s the be honest. If I bothered about social media, I would have to tag my relationship status as ‘it’s _more_ than complicated – like _way_ too complicated.’ Though perhaps you allow me this question because we are both tipsy… why _Hulk_?”

Brienne laughs drily, trying hard not to sound offended because yes, Lannister’s tone is conversational, no more, no less. “ _What_? It’s not like he is way out of my league like most other guys. And in my defense, we were introduced through friends and colleagues who thought we might fit together. Reality proved that this is… _not_ so. And so it never went beyond the dating state.”

“Out of _your_ league? You are way out of _his_. Like seriously… that this guy ever gets laid… I don't comprehend it. I mean, _fair enough_ , he isn’t _totally_ unattractive, but Hulk has that certain aura about himself that makes people appear smarter in his presence because he is so utterly dull… well, maybe that’s his charm. He makes you feel smarter while around him.”

Brienne has try hard not to stare.

That is the first time she heard someone say that a guy is out of _her_ league – and seemingly mean it. Because he said it so effortlessly, without any hint of sarcasm.

It is at this exact moment that his phone beeps, snapping Brienne out of the thoughts that bring color to her cheeks.

“Is it her?” Brienne blurts out asking, but then quickly corrects herself. “That is none of my business. As you said, I am tipsy. So don’t mind me.”

She takes a hasty sip from her drink. Brienne knows she can’t keep accusing Jaime for asking personal questions if she dives right into the matter herself the first chance she gets.

Jaime chuckles softly as he checks the phone. “No worries. It's not her.”

“As I said, that is none of my business.”

“It’s Stark… well, I will let him hang up one more time before calling back,” Jaime chimes, putting his phone on the table, watching it move across the surface as it keeps vibrating under the tuned-down soundtrack of _The Rains of Castamere_.

“Why would you do that?” Brienne frowns.

“Because I just _love_ to make him hate me even more than he does by nature,” Jaime laughs. “I have to live up to my reputation as a pain in the ass.”

_What else do I have left, huh?_

“I see.”

“Ah, he always hangs up so quickly,” Jaime chuckles, picking the phone back up. “So now, let’s call him back.”

“Isn’t it too loud in here?” she asks with a frown.

“Oh, no, the noise level is just about _perfect_!” Jaime laughs as he holds the telephone to his ear, waiting for Eddard to answer. “Ned, my favorite slaveowner! Such an honor! I am so incredibly sorry that I only return the phone call now. I hope it’s nothing urgent, I mean _obviously_ it’s important because _you_ call… Aha…”

Brienne can’t help but watch Jaime as he keeps talking to Eddard Stark over the phone. It’s strange, really, how his tone keeps shifting.

He sounds like another person.

A stranger to everyone, including himself.

“Yeah, no, after the mission, we obviously had to get some drinks, you know, the equivalent to chocolates for when the dear children didn’t fuck up the exam… Hm? Can you repeat that? The music is too loud? I know, right!? Mhm… Yes, that is what we did… Well, it’s not like we had much of a _choice_? Why I didn’t call you right after that DOA situation? Good question. Because you are going to get my report, the way you require me since _forever_? Oh, no, that’s since that little Aerys incident…,” Jaime says, twisting in his chair.

Brienne watches him from the corner of her eye. Lannister’s mimic changed from honestly amused to that fake sarcastic grin almost instantly once that topic turned up.

And she has the feeling that no matter how hard he tries to convince everyone that he cares about nothing, he cares about a lot of things, just like there seem to be a lot more things that hit him personally than he lets on.

Because, apparently, bulletproof vests for emotions were not yet invented.

“I am not being cocky, I am tipsy… You will get your report, with the analysis. As always. So I don't really see why we are having that conversation right now… Oh, so your dearest Robert asked you for it? Ned, I am not here to negotiate when you have trouble with your man-wife… Yes, I am aware that you are above me in the food chain, as the Hand that wipes his ass… I just choose to ignore it… Hm, yeah, yeah. No, the report will be in your inbox, by my shit for honor. Is that all? Or else I will have to drink a lot more until you sound nicer inside my head. Hm… Yeah, no, that’s it for me… I will drink one to you and your beloved man-wife. Kiss him for me once you see him. Bye.”

Brienne takes a sip from her drink, watching, observing.

Jaime chuckles with an odd grimace as he puts the phone away again, the masquerade only sticking halfway across his face to let some of that earnest bitterness seep through his eyes whereas his mouth is the same sort of cocksure smile Brienne has seen a hundred times before.  

“I think he’s on his period, _again_. Though he seems to have it for the last twenty years,” Jaime snorts, downing the rest of his drink, signaling at the bartender for a refill.

Brienne wants to ask something, but then does not.

_That is none of my business, so I shouldn’t even be thinking about this. Keep things separate already!_

To her surprise, Jaime speaks up, seemingly having read her mind, “In case you wanted to ask, but feared that the tipsy was speaking within you: I get those calls regularly. It’s nothing uncommon. Good old Ned is a bit extra tight in his panties because of the bomb situation. Understandably, I assume.”

After all, his son was in the mess as well – Jaime gets that part of the game, he really does, he is only ever pissed at the attitude it comes with.

“Well, it’s not like we could foresee this,” Brienne argues.

The bad conditions in which the missiles were handled was not communicated to them before.

Jaime didn’t toss them on purpose.

“And he _is_ aware… deep down, _very_ deep down. It’s just that Robert is being a massive bitch as of late and Neddy Boy just follows his precious King because he is a lapdog like that – if only for Robert’s sake alone,” Jaime says nonchalantly. “Otherwise good old Ned wouldn’t bend the knee to anyone.”

Brienne curls her lips into a frown.

It’s always odd to be confronted with the reality of people.

Not just having to suffer through your boss puking on your boots, really, but also about the guys whose names are always mentioned with a silent _ooh_ and _aah_.

It always seems disillusioning to realize that people are just people, and not just their names blown out of proportion.

“I suppose it’s a question of entanglement,” Jaime goes on, his grimace pensive as the bartender puts a fresh glass of Scotch down in front of him, taking the empty one away.

“ _Entanglement_?” Brienne asks, running the fingertip of her index finger over the rim of the glass to make it chime ever so softly.

“They’ve been BFFs since they were kids. Both went to the same boarding school at the Eyrie. Jon Arryn was their role model and mentor. Robert had the biggest of crushes on Neddy’s sister Lyanna. They even got engaged until she eloped with Rhaegar, that dumb shit good for nothing. For a long time, their families were pretty much prepared to do what was called _joining the Great Houses_ back in the day of the Kings and Queens competing for the Iron Throne. And now that Robert hold the position he occupies, good old Eddard Stark obviously has to agree with his boss. Because is _not_ just the boss but his BFF. They are too entangled. Perhaps someone should report _them_ for having such an affair,” he snorts.

“So you think he is making irrational decisions because of it?”

“I think absolute rationality is a myth once you apply it to human nature. People are never one hundred percent rational. For that we are too dumb. I am irrational. You are. Little Wolf is. And so is Eddard Stark, even if he wants to believe that he is always making the honorable, rational, logical decisions, which, I may add, rarely co-occur because not always is an honorable decision the most rational choice, or the most logical conclusion. I suppose he _tries_ to be rational to the best of his abilities. However, truth be told, a guy who still _personally_ detests me for killing Aerys though Ned’s never had to do with the guy and only ever got to know me from the few times we saw each other at work or at Robert’s and Cersei’s _wonderful_ wedding, is not a hundred percent rational about it. And I daresay he isn’t being very honorable about it either.”

Jaime shakes his head, taking a gulp of his Scotch pleasantly burning down his throat.

He always found it so rich of people the likes of Eddard Stark to _personally_ judge him even years after that whole ordeal about the Kingslaying should have been put to rest.

Ned didn’t even see Aerys very often. They hardly worked together, let alone interact. Aerys stayed with his own most of the time anyway, with the team.

_With me. His right-hand man._

After all, that was part of Aerys’ game, or so Jaime understood only way too late once he was already way too entangled, way too caught up in that web of lies and horror. Aerys kept them close to tie them to him. He confined them to himself and his service. Jaime lost count over how often he took them out for drinks, for dinner, how often he took them to the clubs, even to the brothels down Silk Street they went on more than one occasion, though that was where Jaime resolutely stuck to the bar. After all, by that time he still foolishly believed in that affair with his sister to be anything that was of the same value to her as it was to him.

And back then, Jaime always thought this was meant to frame them as a team, that they spent so much time together, that Aerys involved them in his decisions, that he created a space for himself in their lives. Colleagues became friends – became family.

Aerys was to Jaime what Jon Arryn probably was to Robert and Ned back in the day. Jaime can still remember the countless times where his leader took him aside, showed him the White Book, praised him when he could put down another good duty of Jaime’s, told him how he was his best pupil, how proud he was of him, how he would take over his spot once he retired, how he would be the next King, _the Lion King_ , he always joked.

That was _awfully_ important to Jaime back then. His Father never was one to praise. He was one to expect. And your worth was measured by how well you stacked up to the expectations Tywin set like goalposts in all of his children’s lives. The Lannister patriarch only ever praised Jaime for that which was given – his birth, his physique, his future as heir to House Lannister, _as though anyone gives a shit on that these days, old_ _man_ , but he never praised Jaime for achievements, even less so for the ones at the department. Tywin always found it a waste of time, a waste of time Jaime should rather spend becoming a member of the Lannister Empire, the company, should grow to be the head of the family so that the tradition would carry on with Tywin’s precious golden boy at the head. His Father never cared and still doesn’t care for the lives he’s protected, the lives Jaime’s saved. It was a nuisance for him more than anything else, stealing him years of framing his son into the person he’d want him to be.

_But Aerys?_

He praised, he comforted, he was there when the rest of his family – including his sisterly lover – was not, he advised, he listened. He pushed, tormented, and pestered, too, let them run lap for lap until all were yammering masses of flesh and bone on the ground, pushed them over the rim of their abilities, made them do the same task over and over until they could do it in their sleep, yet none of that diminished that other treatment Jaime found himself seeking like a drug: the praise, the approval for what he found important, imprisoning the bad guys, saving lives, protecting people.

Aerys also listened to their problems. While Jaime never told him who he was talking about, and how he was _related_ to her, Jaime could pour his heart to his captain, could tell him how she was slipping away from him, was only ever demanding, never giving, considered marrying another guy because he was better suited for the life she wanted to live. And Aerys would listen till the end, clap him on the shoulder, pour him a drink, and tell him some piece of advice that soothed some of the burning pain in the pit of Jaime’s stomach.

Jaime got caught up, and back then he was fine with that. It became his life. The lines kept blurring until everything was a complicated web of personal, job, private, Special Forces, the department, lies, manipulation, guilt, and duty. It didn't dawn on him by that time how dangerous that apparently was, that he’d gotten too close with the man.

At least it didn’t dawn on him until it was by far too late – and suddenly Jaime had doubts about what was plain as day reality. He saw the signs, he saw Aerys’ bloodshot eyes, he saw the tremor in his hands, the growing madness. How soft words of praise turned into red markers in the White Book about how Jaime messed up whenever he spoke up against his captain. Jaime saw those signs, but he didn’t dare to connect the dots for longer than he should have, he knows now. He was hesitant to accept the reality right before him, making him rigid, unable to move, to free himself from that web.

 _Until the day I shot him, of course_ , Jaime thinks to himself with bitterness.

However, that is one of the things this whole ordeal taught him – rationality is a construct people want to believe in so that they have someone to blame. Reality is no unified concept. There are multiple realities, most of which just aren’t ever heard. Yet, what drove him to the point of madness, really, was Eddard Stark’s _personal_ judgment for him, for getting caught up in that web of lies, _like all the others of the team who’ve kept silent_ , but for breaking that vicious cycle.

Anyone who claims that there were no signs is lying. If Jaime could see them through his skewed vision, it must have been out in the open for anyone else around the department who’s ever been around Aerys. The bloodshot eyes didn't just miraculously disappear whenever he talked to anyone but the team.

_It’s always rich coming from those so very entangled when they tell you that you should have been able to pull yourself out of that web long time ago, while they still dangle in their own web like fat spiders._

So yes, rationality is myth, a wild dream, a comforting fantasy that gives you superiority, a way to control an incontrollable situation, or rather the illusion thereof.

Brienne says nothing to that, instead she takes another sip of her drink, listens.

“And I suppose that, at some point, I can’t even blame him,” Jaime goes on, much to Brienne’s surprise. “I guess it’s part of human nature. Even honorably Eddard Stark is not free of those urges. Ned doesn’t realize how much entangled he is. I am not lying when I say that if the two were of the other shore, they should have gotten married by now.”

“And why is Robert so much against you?” she asks hesitantly.

“I am a constant stain in his self-proclaimed squeaky clean record that just won’t wash away, no matter how hard he keeps scrubbing at me. Even if his record’s anything _but_ that. To have the Kingslayer as part of the Special Forces, as a captain and trainer no less, is in no chief’s interest. That whole Kingslaying business was already all over the news in the least of favorable ways. You will probably recall.”

And Brienne recalls very much in detail indeed. The video footage of when the first camera teams were allowed to film inside the building. How they showed the room, the blood.

_Not the gasoline, though._

Not the possible fire Jaime doused before it could catch flame.

She remembers the interviews by white-collar people, lawyers and reporters, interviews with Aerys’ widow. How stoically she looked on as she answered the questions. Back then, Brienne was irritated at the lack of emotion, believing that perhaps she was too deep in shock, but now that she heard the story from Jaime’s perspective, Brienne starts to believe that Rhaella was perhaps covering up a deeply felt relief that came with Aerys’ demise. Because she can’t imagine that a man who was apparently ready to torch a man alive and was seemingly on drugs half the time was a loving husband to his wife, or a loving father to his children.

There were almost no interviews whatsoever with Jaime, though, upon reflection.

He only ever gave interviews once the investigation was over and Jaime got away with a black eye, as people often said, resuming his position as part of the Special Forces despite the fact that he shouldered the blame for having killed Aerys.

Jaime’s statement was short, emotionless, almost, even though here again, Brienne now has to reassess her judgment because it was likely just a matter of self-protection. He said he wouldn’t answer questions regarding the investigation since that was not his “right or responsibility” and that he was just “happy to be back home.”

And so, before Brienne ever got to know the man, she got to know his fake smile as he said those words.

“Right,” she mumbles sheepishly once Brienne realizes that he is waiting for a reply of some sort. “I’ve seen those interviews.”

“Robert wanted to have a smooth transition. _Everyone_ wanted him to have such, to lead away from the idea of Aerys being the man he was. How else to justify the continuation of what was coined his ‘legacy’ as Robert took his oaths as the new chief? That was why it came to it that I was put back in service despite the fact that they had found me guilty of my crimes and just passed it off as lack of evidence, witnesses, missing motive, and the like. A tragic _accident_ , wasn’t it? _Something_ like that. But now the interviews only show up late at night on history channels. As though this was history. It’s a fairytale, a tragic one.”

Jaime huffs.

_Here we go again – why am I always spilling out those things? That woman has better to do than listen to my complaining about **Nedbert** being utterly bitchy. _

He turns his head to look at her, but to his surprise, she tears her gaze up from her glass to look at him briefly with what he can only read as genuine interest.

_Which proves the point – I don’t understand women at all. Or maybe just that one in particular._

“But yeah… what I was trying to say is this: Robert would rather have me gone now because I am no longer convenient – the transition is done, and now I am just a relict from the Targaryen reign at the department, basically. Ned also would rather have me gone because he doesn’t like me and because Robert says so. And that I don't go is pissing them off so much that I just can’t deny myself the pleasure.”

“What I don’t understand is that they protect his name even after what he did. I mean… the ones involved. You say they have the facts?” Brienne asks in a hushed voice, moving her eyes away from her glass only barely as she keeps running circles on the glass’s rim with her finger.

She was wondering ever since that night she was forced to spend at Jaime’s apartment, the truths spilling out of him along with what was left in his stomach.

“They do.”

“Well?”

“You want to hear it?”

“If I didn’t, I wouldn’t have asked,” she replies, surprising herself with the resoluteness and the apparent need to know that statement comes with.

“That means you asked for it, then… So alright, here is some mental candy to savor slowly: It’s one scandal when a Special Forces leader whose family has been acting as chiefs of the department for many, many years, is shot by accident, _more or less_. But _quite_ another to explain how comes that an entire department did not realize that said leader was as high as a skyscraper on the mission, that he still passed a fitness assessment by the time he was already consuming Wildfire as though he thought it’d turn him into a fire-spitting dragon, how he managed to cheat the drug tests, and how comes no one had him reported or removed before that _tragic accident_.”

Brienne swallows thickly at that.

_Something to savor slowly most certainly._

She was always aware that the department was far from perfect, but when Brienne started working in King’s Landing, she didn’t think that the chiefs and commanders would cover up those circumstances and throw someone like Jaime under the bus if only to save the department’s good name.

“Sorry, I didn’t want to spoil the mood here,” he says quickly, a bit sheepishly even. “I seem to be more of a self-serving, depressive asshole as I normally give myself credit for it.”

“No, no, I asked,” she assures him quickly.

“I am really trying not to get you tangled up in that shit any more than I already did,” Jaime adds in all earnest. “Believe it or not.”

And Jaime knows he has to try harder.

He has to protect her from that.

He has to do it differently than Aerys did it, he has to get off that path.

_I have to protect her from becoming me._

“As I said, it’s fine. I asked – you answered,” Brienne argues.

And she should be glad for those truths, _right_?

Brienne is always seeking the truth, even if it’s an uncomfortable one.

Sweet illusions don’t help anyone. They didn’t help her father, so she stopped giving him hopes that she’d live the life he’d want her to live. So Brienne has to accept that they won’t help her either. If at all, it might be for the best to learn the lesson now.

_Because, apparently, politics permeate every aspect of life, even the department._

“If you say so,” he says, only to turn his head slightly away from her to glance past her. “Oh, seems like the guys come to rescue you.”

“What?” Brienne turns her head to see Robb and Theon approaching.

“I bet you’ll be proud of yourself that you manage to prove me that they start to care about you, hm?” Jaime teases.

“Hey, Tarth, we already thought you sneaked away,” Theon drawls, clearly drunk by now.

“I was just getting a drink, as I said,” she replies.

Yeah no, the situation is not the same, it’s quite different, if in ways that Brienne didn’t expect when she climbed into the van this evening.

“Boss,” the two young men say in unison.

“Octopussy. Little Wolf. What can I do for you?” Jaime asks with a feigned smile.

“Just wanted to ask if any of you want to play darts as well. Robb is drunk enough to finally have some fun and take that stick out of his ass – and Hyle and Ronnet keep bitching that they can beat all of the team. We want to prove them wrong, obviously.”

“And you don't manage on your own? You, the _Master of Bombs_?” Jaime jokes.

“We’re just trying to make a point.”

“Oh well, to Hells with it,” Jaime sighs, hopping off of his stool. “Tarth? Are you coming? Now would be yet another fabulous moment to show the dumbnuts who is the real man here.”

Brienne rolls her eyes as she gets up as well to follow them to where the others are already standing around the dart board.

“Ha, so now we can finally settle the record,” Ronnet chuckles softly, shooting Brienne a glance she simply ignores, instead focusing on Jaime thrusting the darts in her hand – the one set of blue ones.

“How long has it been since you last played the game?” he goes on to ask Jaime, who only offers him an easy smile, “Some time during Robert’s Rebellion and the Long Night, I assume. So how do you play it, you remind me?”

“What? Don’t you remember?” Hyle laughs throatily.

“Might be. Or maybe I am just drunk.” Jaime winks at him.

“I’d suggest we should just play and see who manages to get from 301 points to 0 the fastest. If we only ever compete one vs. one, it’d take forever,” Ronnet goes on to say.

“If you say that works,” Jaime chuckles.

“Yeah, sure, should do. So, how about lady’s first?” Ronnet suggests, looking at Brienne with that sort of smile she always wants to punch right out of him.

“That means you’ll shoot first?” Loras snorts, to which the other man can do nothing but glare at him.

“Shots were fired,” Theon laughs.

“Unless the one actual lady of that sad bunch here tosses the darts,” Jaime argues, giving Brienne a teasing look that makes her scowling at him as she takes position.

“Need help to figure out how to stand?” Hyle asks in his slow sort of teasing manner that never really has her scowl because it just sounds like a boy is speaking, and Brienne usually never gets upset about boys saying something about her.

“No, thanks,” she quips as she takes position, going through the motion of the toss a few times before sending the first dart flying. Brienne has to get a feeling for the distance and the aerodynamics of the darts first, so she is quite happy with getting 20, 16, and 39 in the first round.

“Not the almost bad,” Hyle says, clapping her on the shoulder rougher than he should if Brienne weren’t a sturdy woman with the physique of a man in most aspects. A small, frail woman would tumble to the floor most likely, but then again, that’s little surprising for Brienne. Hyle always tended to confuse her with one of the guys ever since the date they had was declared to be the one and only ever. Because during the date he obviously acted around her like he acts around women generally. It was a date after all. Ever since then, he treated her like a guy, basically, safe for when Ronnet makes him act all funny and full of himself.

But that is the thing with Hyle Hunt, he is a good guy, deep down, but he is also tag-along. And to Brienne’s mishap, he chose Ronnet Connington of all people to be the guy to tag after.

_Talk about poor life choices._

“Hulk, in case you didn’t know, slapping girls on the back is no way of showing endearment,” Jaime says, his lips wrapped around his Scotch. The other man looks at him quizzically, and Brienne has to try her best to hide her blush as she walks away to make space for the next contestant.

She walks over to the bar, surprised when Jaime holds out a fresh drink to her that he seemingly ordered for her while she tossed the blue darts. Brienne takes the glass wordlessly, taking a big gulp.

“I thought you didn’t want to bring that up,” she mutters in a low voice, trying her best to keep her irritation at bay.

_But he said that he is the last one to speak about people having dated – and now he brings it up no twenty minutes later?_

Jaime doesn’t turn his head as he whispers back, “I was _not_ referring to that, I just want Hulk to finally learn some manners. If someone gets to beat you around, it’s me.”

“He didn't do it on purpose,” Brienne argues, frowning at herself.

_Just why do I say that? Why am I apologetic on **Hyle’s** behalf of all people? _

“Ever the more a reason to point it out to him. Seven Hells, Tarth, for that you are all tough and determined, you are sometimes as shy as a schoolgirl. You know, part of that whole team communication thing is that you stop caring about hurting feelings and telling the guys how to. If you don’t like something – tell them. Show enough self-worth to own up to that bunch of losers,” he says with a kind of urgency and clarity hidden behind murmured words that Brienne finds herself staring. She is plain as day stunned at his silent words.

_Endearing. Guys being out of my league. And now this…_

Sometimes she’d want to pay solid money if only to poke inside Lannister’s head to figure out just what exactly he implies with what he says. Because she can hear the implication, she just cannot read it, cannot decipher it in all detail.

Or perhaps she is just frustrated with herself for being unable to decipher herself in that way, not knowing what a possible implication, whatever it may be, would mean to her. Does she want it to mean something – if it were to mean something?

And isn’t she already overcomplicating things the way she always does?

“Think about it.”

“I… will.”

Brienne watches on silently as the others make their tosses under much hooting, shouting, glasses clinking and chinking, bottles popping, and comments being tossed with the same sharpness as the darts are sent flying. Ronnet is obviously full of himself for managing a bull’s eye, a 39, and 21, though it’s little surprising since he’s had enough opportunity to get acquainted.

She shakes her head – just _why_ does she bother? This is no competition, this is not training. Brienne should be enjoying herself, sink into the easiness of the mood, relish the burn of the Scotch pouring down her throat, listen to the swelling music, tap her foot along to the beat. Instead, she is trying to figure the air resistance of the darts in correlation to their weight, or the right trajectory.

_Way to go, Brienne, way to go. That’s why people tell you often enough that you are no fun to be around with. You always take the fun out of things._

That’s been something Brienne had people tell her for almost all her life. Back in school, that was why she was rarely ever invited to parties, and even if she was, only ever lurked by the table with the drinks, leaning against a wall, watching and observing the guys making tender baby steps to ask girls for a dance. While others enjoyed themselves, Brienne has always been bystander, watching and observing, learning, trying to figure out the ritual, the pattern behind it, the mystery behind those stuttered “would you, would you, uhm, do you wanna… how about… wanna dance?” actually resulted in any of the girls holding out their hands to let the sweating, acne-ridden boy lead her over to the dancefloor to dance, well, if you could call that dancing. Seemingly, most men Brienne’s ever met are incapable of dancing. Still, they got to dance, no matter how awkward it looked. And young Brienne always tried to get to the bottom of it as she sipped her drink in silence and watched.  

 _Or perhaps I was just trying to find a logical reason other than my looks and attitude just why no guy asked me for a dance_ , she thinks to herself with a bitterness she knows she should no longer feel because so much time has passed since. _While I know I am not graceful, I am still fairly sure I would have danced better than those guys back in high school. I took classes as a kid. But yeah, I didn’t get to the bottom of that mystery until Septa Roelle broke the numbers to me… Still, would have been nice to be asked for a dance only just once – there are always variations, deviations, a measure falling through the grid._

Brienne shakes her head at the thoughts – _those of a schoolgirl no less_. She blames it on the Scotch that she is getting all sentimental all of a sudden. The very good Scotch, she notes. Jaime didn’t like about that.

She is a bit tipsy after all.

Brienne is pulled out of her thoughts by another round of hooting. She tears her gaze up to Jaime sluggishly firing at the board and hitting not much of anything, barely scoring 3 points in total with a 1 and a 2, having sent the first dart right into the wooden board around the dart board so to protect the wall from greater damage.

“Is it possible we finally found something the captain is not utterly perfect in? I think I might cry right now,” Theon laughs loudly, downing another beer.

“Dude, you know he’s gonna make you run till you hurl once we are back in training?” Robb argues, nudging him in the midsection lightly.

“That’d be worth it,” the red-haired man argues, throwing his head back, chuckling low in his throat.

“Maybe I’ll have more luck next round,” Jaime says with an easy smile as he settles back down next to Brienne, leaning backwards to rest his elbows on the wooden top of the bar, glancing at the rest of the team fussing over writing down all scores correctly.

It takes Brienne two more rounds to figure the mystery behind Jaime’s bad tosses, though apparently, she seems to be the only one noticing as the others are busy fussing over their own scores, scribbled on a damp napkin in untidy handwriting.

_Captain: 36 points._

0, 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8.

Next round he is going to score 9, 10, and 11 most likely, therefore, 66.

_He is just going through the numbers!_

Brienne turns her head to see Jaime’s soft sort of smile, an easy smile, private almost, because he is the only one having his fun with that score. Jaime turns his head in her direction, and yet again apparently seems to read it right in her eyes just what she is thinking.

“I still wonder if anyone else is going to figure,” he mutters, leaning over slightly to be closer to her ear as he speaks. “Though I doubt it. Alcohol and low intelligence don’t mingle well.”

“So you are not keen on winning?” Brienne returns, finding her own head tilt to lean in closer as the music seems to keep swelling, the small dancefloor filling with more and more people which seem to arrive out of nowhere.

“I don’t have to prove myself to a bunch of drunkards, no,” Jaime replies with an easy smile she can almost feel brushing against her ear. “In contrast to most guys, I don’t have to establish my dominance with games like darts. Just like I don’t need it for my own self-worth that the guys root for me.”

 _Very much in contrast to Hyle_ , Brienne can’t help but think to herself as she watches his eyes going around almost wildly after he finished his round, seeking approval, seeking the hoots, the shouts.

“Are _you_ keen on winning, then?” Jaime asks.

“I am not keen on losing,” Brienne replies with an uncertain smile.

“You _definitely_ want to win this,” he laughs, leaning in closer once more. “Though I may tell you, you don’t have to prove it to them either. Just saying.”

Brienne has the “thank you” on the tip of her tongue, but bites it back down, washes it down with another swig of the Scotch.

_Just saying._

He makes it seem so effortless, so natural, to say these things that Brienne has been fighting for others to recognize for an achingly long time, for almost all her life to be exact.

For all the shit Lannister has already given her, _still_ gives her, and is likely going to give to her following tomorrow, Jaime still ended up saying the kindest words anyone outside her family and friends has said to her as of late. Without big gestures, just by the way, but no less true, as though he understood exactly how much those snippets and pieces mean to Brienne, but not making a deal out of it for just that reason.

And that is a scary thought, actually, upon reflection.

That this man can read her.

Not just her moves, her gestures, that Jaime can tell a lie slipping from her mouth with way too much effort still. That’s not at all scary, that’s daily business, that’s what he is there for, that is what he learned, a skill he refined over the years, brought to perfection he barely lets show, playing it low so not to draw attention to that unless needed.

What is scary, though, is that he can seemingly read the _private_ her, perhaps not fully, but he starts to grasp that invisible shape, the one Brienne tries her best to keep away, lock away, because that private her is way too fragile, girlish, freakish, a schoolgirl aching for a dance, a woman dreaming away about children she won’t have, about a life she won’t live.

And she can’t have that. As Jaime said, she can’t get entangled, just like she can’t have others getting entangled with her, get caught up with her.

_Pink glitter…. Pink glitter?!_

Brienne shakes her head as she glances at her hands, suddenly no longer holding a Scotch, but a pink drink, likely with coconut milk and some red liquor, a bunch of tropical fruits cut up into slices hanging over the rim, a pink, glittery cocktail umbrella, and another one in turquoise, and two blue straws wobbling up and down in the milky liquid.

She tears her gaze up to meet Jaime’s, who’s giving her surprisingly bright smile as his fingers slip away from the drink, since Brienne finally holds on to it on her own.

“I thought you might need something less strong to last through the evening,” he says in his usual teasing voice, winking at her as he leans back slightly. “And you can consider that the return for that drink you got me at the Dragonpit.”

“Oh, uhm, thanks,” she mutters, trying hard not to mimic the color of her drink with her cheeks.

“Man, you are tipsy indeed. Now you even thank me for teasing you,” he chuckles.

Brienne bites her lips.

 _Right_ , she should be flustered about this, but she doesn’t find herself flustered, Brienne doesn’t find herself scowling.

“I think you are up next, Tarth,” he goes on to say, nodding at the darts board.

 _Oh, right, there was that_ , she thinks to herself.

“If you make a decent toss now, you’ll rid yourself of Octopussy and Little Wolf until the rest of the game. They are way too drunk by now for any proper coordination,” Jaime snorts, nodding at the two basically holding up each other to keep themselves from falling now. “Don’t they make a cute couple?”

“Well, let’s see how it goes,” Brienne says as she gets off the stool. Jaime holds out his hand to her to take her cocktail before taking up the blue darts to make her toss. She is pleased with herself, hitting the 60, bull’s eye, but then bad luck strikes as Ronnet bumps into her back just as she is about to shoot, leaving her with only just a 10 for her third toss.

Brienne growls to herself – she knows better than to give that guy the satisfaction of reacting to that, despite what Lannister may have to say about it otherwise, but to her it’s still ever the more frustrating that he won’t quit that stupid game despite the fact that she is not taking part in it.

_I just want to have some fun – and Ronnet isn’t making it any easier on me to finally let go and do just that._

“Dude, can you stop being a dick only just once?!” Theon calls out to Ronnet, which does come as a surprise for Brienne.

_Definitely not the same as in the Dragonpit._

“I didn’t do anything, asshole,” Ronnet insists.

“Go on telling yourself. Gods, you are such a poor loser,” Theon huffs, waving his left hand in the air dismissively. Ronnet glares daggers at him, though Theon apparently has zero fucks to give as he takes another sip from his beer.

“And a pain in the ass,” Loras calls out.

“As I said, I didn’t do anything. I slipped.”

“You go on telling yourself. Geez, sit down before I forget myself,” Loras huffs. “I am allergic to your bullshit.”

And that really takes Brienne by surprise. Her relationship with Loras is anything but unproblematic, specifically after what happened with Renly.

 _For that he will probably hate me forever_ , Brienne thinks to herself. _Which makes it ever the odder that he helps me now. But maybe he is just showing some manners._

“And what would you do then?” Ronnet asks, seemingly up for a challenge.

You always get more confident when you are drunk.

“You don’t want to find out, trust me,” Loras huffs, taking another drink from his glass. “That wouldn’t be pretty.”

“What? You’d get into a fight with me over her? I thought you were into…,” Ronnet means to say, but Loras cuts him off, “I dare you finish that sentence, or else I may share some not so nice information about you that I don’t think you want out here in public.”

“What?”

“As I said, dare me, fella.”

Loras gives her one look before going back to his drink. Though she knows well to interpret that glance. Loras may not personally like her, but he knows how to show manners, having been taught such by his family very well, specifically his grandmother.

Brienne can do nothing much but tilt her head as Ronnet resumes his seat by the napkin, putting down the scores as though this really mattered. However, to her, that may have been the bigger victory for the night, right after managing to dispose that bomb – the guys stood up for her. It was likely and hopefully not meant as a grandeur sort of gesture, but simply a way for her to tell that they are growing together as a team after all, as a unity.

Some more hooting, and booing later – not only for Ronnet’s bumping into her, but also because it dawns on Theon only right at that moment that she just kicked him out of the game – Brienne maneuvers back over to her seat, only to have Jaime thrust the cocktail right back into her hand with a teasing smile.

 _Obviously_ , he knows what Loras and Theon raising their voices against Ronnet means to her.

“Suits you better than me. Pink just isn’t my color,” Jaime says, choosing not to comment.

_Shall she have her victory, she earned it for tonight._

“But you think it’s mine?” she huffs, amused.

Her Septa always told her not to wear pinks and violets, _the girlish color palette_ , she called it. Because it made her appear even more mannish, more freakish, or so Roelle told her. As a child, Brienne found it incredibly cruel of her to say so, because she used to love those blueish violets, the taffy and magenta, the lilac, amethyst, and periwinkle – if only because she always had to laugh at the sound of that color’s name, periwinkle. As an adult, she sees that the woman had the rights of it. Darker, settled colors suit her better.

Not that Brienne gives much on it anyway these days.

One of the advantages of wearing uniforms and khaki pants is that everyone wears the same, so you don’t have to bother how you may stick out, you don’t, you blend in.

“Well, it still suits you better than me for sure. And you should know that guys are _awful_ when it comes to gendered color coding. They all seem to think that this settles your sexual identity and orientation somehow. There’s still so many losing their shit over wearing a pink shirt. They are afraid that this will make them gay or that their balls will shrink. Or _something_ like that,” Jaime snorts. “Never figured the logic of that thinking. I suppose there just isn’t any.”

“And you belong to that species, too, you mean to say?” she asks with a bit of a smirk.

“Nah, I just got the Lannister color code hammered into my brain since I was just that small,” Jaime replies, now with a light lull as well, gesturing at the height of his knee. “Red and gold. Gold and red. I always had to wear at least one red item for family get-togethers. My Father is big in that whole show-aspect of life. Truth be told, his whole life is a travesty. No one’s ever told him, though. No one dares. But yeah, when you get that stuck in your brain since you are a kid, you have a hard time letting go of it. So I stick to those colors even when I don’t mean to. One time I wanted to get something different for a change. Went to the store, ended up with a red leather jacket with golden zipper, I am not even kidding.”

“Scotch isn’t Lannister red, though.”

“But golden. With a bit of brown. Which in turn makes sense, I suppose,” he argues, tilting his head to the side pensively.

“Why?” she asks, making a face.

“Didn’t you know that us Lannisters are said to be able to shit gold?” he tells her with a broad grin creeping up his lips.

Brienne laughs out loud at that, and Jaime can’t help but think to himself that she has a charming sort of laugh. It’s an honest one, if she lets it out of the cage of herself, and he learned over time that honesty is a rare gift that shines ever the brighter in a fog full of lies and fake smiles.

“What? You haven’t heard of that myth yet?” he asks, chuckling.

“That’s a myth?” Brienne frowns.

“I suppose so, up until now, I didn’t shit any gold, so it’s no fact, but a myth,” he replies, rolling his shoulders.

Maybe he has to try harder to see if there is some truth to that old myth, now that his father disowned him, coming to think of it.

_Now what a scandal that would be! I’d be all over the news yet again!_

“Maybe you have to eat gold to have that effect.”

“ _That_ would be cheating.”

“True. So, I guess I’ll drink the pink for you, then,” Brienne says with a small smile, sipping some of the milky drink through the blue straws, coloring them, _oh, periwinkle, actually_.

“Most kind of you,” he snickers softly.

“Boss, it’s your turn!” Theon calls out.

“Can I borrow your darts little quick, Tarth?” Jaime asks. Brienne frowns, handing them over to him anyway. “Where was I?”

“Pink drinks and myths regarding the Lannisters, but…,” she replies, meaning to point out to him that the others are waiting for him to make his toss, but then the blue arrow is sent flying, solidly hitting the bull’s eye. The others quite flabbergasted at the effortlessness the round came with. And their eyes only keep widening as the last two arrows hit the very same score.

Jaime laughs softly as he glances over to Ronnet, “I guess I got lucky at last!”

The red-haired man looks at him with an equally shocked and irritated grimace as he scribbles on the napkin.

“I think you are next, mate!” Jaime goes on to call out. “And you better hurry it up, the competition is dragging out too long because you and Tarth take forever to settle the record.”

“Hey, I am still in the game!” Hyle argues.

“You go on believing that,” Jaime snorts, patting him on the shoulder lightly. “You were out of the game five rounds ago.”

Hyle grimaces at him, his fingers twitching.

“Oh _Gods_ , he is counting only _now_ ,” Jaime moans, leaning his head back, only to focus back on Brienne. “Sorry, I think we got cut off again?”

“I don’t think the Lannister myth about what you may leave in the toilet needs any more discussion,” she says bluntly, only to go on to whisper, “But what happened about your own game? You should have been aiming for 37 through 39 this round.”

“Tarth, you think I am _that_ predictable? You disappoint me. A huge part of my game is to get you all by surprise, over and over again. So that you don't forget that you can’t trust patterns – ever.”

_Right, there was that._

Jaime has been going on about varying patterns a lot these past few days, reminding them to move differently through the simulations so not to get stuck in repetitive structures.

“I know they say that the tried and the trusted are good because they are tried and trusted, but here is something for you to bear in mind: The world won’t toss you the exact same circumstances of a simulation right at your face. Things will go different. Things will go wrong. People will move in ways you didn’t expect it, didn’t train it. It’s essential that you keep varying, that you keep fluid, flexible. Don’t be a stone, be a wave. Be the wave to crush your enemies in all the ways they don’t see it coming,” he told them the other day.

And it seems strangely fitting now, looking back at today’s mission.

It was _nothing_ like in the simulations.

Even the plans they had of the building felt very different once they moved across the yard.  

Just like there was no way to foresee that the criminals wouldn’t know how to properly store the bombs. _That they are apparently **that** dumb. _

It’s as Jaime said – they have to be waves, they have to be like water, have to adapt, because the world keeps changing around them at all times, and that is the only way to stay afloat.

“I just thought you’d stick to it till the end, but yeah, that would have been too foreseeable,” she says.

“Quite right. But you will give us the very much foreseeable victory of yours, I assume?”

Now that Little Griffin Shit had to play unfair, Jaime is sure that Brienne will mean to beat him with hard work, the way she _always_ does. And while he could hum all day long when that little bag of nasty gets a beatdown, he hopes Brienne will figure out at some point that she, too, should change tactics every once in a while.

“We will have to see,” Brienne says more boldly than she expected herself to utter it, which is rewarded by Jaime grinning at her smugly.

“Is that a challenge?”

“We will have to see,” she repeats, taking another sip of her pink drink tasting of coconut and periwinkle as Brienne sucks it through the straws.

“Tarth! Get going already! You are up next!” Ronnet calls out, the impatience written all over his face as he taps his foot on the ground for emphasis. “You still have to score at least another 61, needless to mention that you need a bull’s eye or one from the outer ring to make it.”

 _As if I didn’t know that – for that I don’t have to constantly check that stupid napkin of yours_ , Brienne thinks to herself, oppressing any urge to roll her eyes at him.

She gets up with a sigh, taking the blue darts back from Jaime.

_Be unpredictable._

Brienne looks around, considers for a moment, then two, how to go about it. Inside her mind, she already finds herself trying to figure out the trajectory again, but then she turns abruptly, facing away from the board, only to toss the dart across her shoulder.

“BULL’S EYE!!!” Theon shouts, jumping up from his seat, almost stumbling over if not for Robb holding on to him by the hem of his shirt. The other guys, safe for Ronnet, are all hooting and shouting now at that lucky shot, and Brienne just keeps smiling as she walks back to the bar, her eyes finding Jaime’s at once, who rewards her with a knowing look.

“Now, _that’s_ what I call unpredicted,” he chimes.

 _For that she is bullheaded-stubborn, she can pick up on things a lot faster than most people give her credit for it_ , Jaime thinks to himself, amused.

And perhaps a bit proud as well, though Jaime is not so self-serving to take that credit for himself.

_At least not entirely._

“That was a total lucky toss,” Brienne admits now almost sheepishly as she takes her drink back.

Sometimes she is more surprised with herself than others are probably shocked at her change of behavior.

“Hey, you aren’t done yet!” Ronnet calls out, a tinge of red coloring his cheeks. “You still have to do two tosses.”

“You know what? You win,” Brienne says, shrugging her shoulders, to which the red-haired man’s eyes only open ever the wider. “What?!”

“You win. I give up. Congrats. You _earned_ it,” Brienne says, and that small smile seems to drive him nearly mad. And she can’t deny that it feels good to see him fuming like that, because Brienne beat him in another way – in a way he didn’t see coming, in a way he didn't prepare himself for.

_Be the wave – and enjoy the tide._

“Congratulations to Griffin Shit! He won _so_ fair and square!” Jaime shouts, clapping his hands together over his head in a mocking manner that only brings more color to Connington’s already inflamed cheeks. “Now come here and get your prize!”

“There is a prize?!” Theon lulls.

“Of course there is a prize, or else it wouldn’t be a competition,” Jaime tells him, shaking his head.

“Well, shit, I should have tried harder, then, but I saved the day,” the red-haired man says with a drunken smile, taking another sip from his bottle, which is apparently empty.

“Yeah, you go on believing that you are superman,” Loras snorts, shoving him in the side.

“You heard that?! He said that I am superman!”

“I did _not_.”

“Now come here, my friend,” Jaime urges Ronnet, who walks up to him slowly. “So now, here you go. You get that fresh glass of Scotch first. And then…”

Jaime holds out a slip of paper to him, leaning in closer, though Brienne can still hear him whisper, “That’s the phone number of that blonde chick in the violet dress that you’ve been ogling at for a while now.”

“How would you have her number?” Ronnet frowns at him, not buying into it just yet, though you can see the temptation reflecting in his narrow eyes.

“I am apparently good-looking and charming and chicks want to bang me real bad,” Jaime snorts. “You are welcome.”

Ronnet takes the slip of paper from him hesitantly to stuff it into his pocket.

“Woo! Ronnet Griffin Shit Connington! Give it up for the Master of Darts!” Jaime hollers, the others clapping their hands along with him, while still a bit irritated – because no one really wanted him to win, other than Ronnet himself of course.

Brienne can do nothing much but frown as Connington empties the Scotch in a single swig, puts the glass back down on the bar counter, and starts to talk to Hyle, out of eavesdrop.

“Yeah, that came unexpected for me now as well, no way of denying it,” Brienne snorts. Jaime leans in closer to whisper to her, “You don't think I gave him that chick’s number, do you? I wouldn’t ever be that cruel to the woman.”

 _Or anyone else for the matter_ , Jaime adds only to himself.

“Then whose number is it?” Brienne questions with a grimace.

“Robert’s.”

“What?” She gapes, making Jaime chuckle ever the more, “Robert Baratheon’s. He always takes forever to answer the phone, so Ronnet will likely say some cute little embarrassing things before it’ll click. Ever the better if he leaves a voicemail!”

“That is horrible,” Brienne argues, though she can’t help but laugh at the idea.

“That’s what you get for playing unfair,” Jaime argues simply, which has Brienne stunned once more. “I am mentor to you all, right? That means I have to make sure you learn those valuable life lessons. And trust me, that _will_ teach him.”

He may not have spoken up about it, but that doesn’t mean he will not react to it in some way.

“That, and drinking my spit,” he adds simply, which has Brienne almost falling off her chair. “What?!”

“As I keep telling you guys, you always have to have an eye on these things. I spit my ice cubes into his Scotch before I handed it to him. If he is too dumb not to check before drinking it, he shouldn’t ever complain if he wakes up on morning in a bathtub full of ice and a kidney missing,” Jaime explains to her, leaning back against the bar again.

“That is disgusting.”

“That is serving him right. I already have the asshole role, so I can’t have him take my spot. Griffin Shit has to learn some many lessons, still. Well, all of you do, but that guy… needs a lot of training and humiliation, still. Gladly, I am more than willing to keep humiliating him until he is a submissive little puppy.”

“You think you can get him there?”

“Either that or he’ll leave and crawl back to playing meter maid for the City Watch,” Jaime huffs, making a mental note that he will have to have a heart-to-heart with that fellow once they reach the second stage of the training.

_Or maybe I will just smack him across the face._

“He was never a meter maid,” Brienne argues, chuckling softly. “Now I have visuals, thanks.”

“Makes no difference to me,” Jaime argues. “I don’t care for who you once were, I am more concerned with who you are and what you may be one day, perhaps… or not.”

_Sadly, few share that sentiment. Way too many people obsess about who you once were, never once considering who you may still become._

“Sooooo, are you tipsy enough just yet to dig through some of your family’s myths and dirty little secrets?” he asks with a dirty grin.

“My family doesn’t have dark secrets,” Brienne huffs.

“Nonsense, all families have dirty little secrets.”

“Mine does not.”

“That means that you are not nearly tipsy enough,” Jaime concludes, turning back to the bartender. “The lady needs another Scotch to wash down that pink explosion.”

“Who said I wanted a Scotch?” Brienne asks, curling her lips into a frown.

“I said you _need_ one. You still have a lot of loosening up to do.”

“Do I?”

“You are on a good way, maybe, but yeah, your mentor’s got you covered and will teach you the ways. Don’t you worry, I’m going easy on you, so I won’t toss you too far,” he says, leaning back on his chair slightly.

“Most kind of you,” she chuckles, though Brienne senses that there might be something more meaningful to that statement.

“That’s what I am there for.”

“Ordering drinks in the faint hope to get some secrets out of me – which you won’t manage?”

“First of all, that’s not out yet – and you have no clue just how good I am at this. Secondly, not really. I’m just in for some harmless tossing.”

_So I can catch you._

Jaime frowns to himself.

_Where did **that** come from? Maybe I should quit the Scotch – it seems to make me squishy in the head.  _

“Also tossing some more darts?” Brienne asks with a surprisingly easy grin.

“Now you want a showdown against your mentor already? And here I thought you finally changed your ways a bit, Tarth.”

“Wouldn’t that give away the game – if I was that predictable?”

“Arguably. Well, I you want to coax a challenge out of me, we will have to do _much_ more drinking. But… isn’t that what we are here for anyway?”

“Probably.”

Jaime nods with a smirk, chinking his glass against hers. “So? What do we drink to?”

“Finding new ways?”

“Hm, I like the sound of that. To finding new ways, then,” Jaime says, lifting the glass to his lips. “Cheers.”

“Cheers.”

No matter where it may toss them, so long it's going forward.

_Right?_


	10. Play

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaime gives out his evaluations before heading into Phase Two with his recruits, thereby using the chance to have some much-needed real-talk with the team members who are anything but a team at this stage. 
> 
> Because he has to plan towards a future now, it seems.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *de-lurks*
> 
> Hello everyone! Thank you for sticking to the story despite the terrible update schedule as of late, but real life was in the way, then writer's block tossed itself into the mix, and one hand surgery later and all went to complete shit. But anyway, I am back, and I am beyond a word's description thankful for all those of you who have commented and have so kindly encouraged me to continue despite the fact that it has been so long since the last update. 
> 
> Because I have not given up, trust me in this, but... it is tough when you have to make some bigger decisions in the narrative. I guess we've all been there. 
> 
> So yeah, this chapter is a bit more team-based. I wanted to have at least one chapter to dive a bit more into the other characters, therefore, I found such a setting a good idea to achieve such. At least I hope... :D
> 
> This chapter is *quite* long, which I hope you also take a bit as a token of me trying my best to give *back* after such a drought of updates. 
> 
> I hope you will enjoy this chapter. 
> 
> Much love! ♥♥♥

Jaime twists in his office chair pensively as he goes back over his notes another time. Not that he’d have to in order to have the information present in his mind, because he learned them by heart long time ago, but because that is the only thing that keeps Jaime from getting up to yell down the hallway for his _pupils_ to finally show the required respect to come on time for their evaluations.

 _Though perhaps they are just surprised that they are getting any_ , Jaime thinks to himself, almost amused at the idea, if not for the growing frustration keeping him from it.

However, he must say that the grimaces of surprise and shock on the little pests were a pure gift. Hunched over their tables, slouched across the chairs, only to tear their gazes up in utter shock as Jaime strolled into the conference room to announce that it's time for the first “school certificates” now that they wrapped up the basic training.

Maybe he shouldn’t have told them that there would be many bad marks resulting in some many runs with the Sash of Shame.

Though the again, Jaime can’t find it in himself to bother to care, considering that they only just made it through the basic training.

Which is more of a miracle than anything else, he knows. After all, that whole team constellation is beyond fucked up. No less because this worn out, grumpy, pain-in-the-ass Kingslayer is supposed to run that team and make it a good one while at it.

_As though I could work magic. For that they had those wood witches back in the day, didn’t they?_

If Aerys were still alive and not as high as a skyscraper, during the good few years he’s had, he would have laughed straight to the authorities’ faces for the folly of just assigning him some members who didn’t fit together in the least.

“A process, it’s a process, Jaime,” Aerys always told him as he introduced him to the “Fine Arts of Team Composition.” Jaime’s old commander made it a way of artistic expression, a painting, a melody, a harmony. And Jaime, the foolish young man he was by the time, believed that his mentor was introducing him to those secret arts so that he could make his own, so that he could create, move, grow as a soldier-slash-police-officer-artist.

It dawned on Jaime only very, _very_ late, sitting on his couch in his dimly lit apartment over a glass of lukewarm Scotch, faded photographs spread on the coffee table, and the White Book as the constant intruder of his mind, the red letters pulsating even behind closed spines of that worn notebook that holds far too much power over him to this day, he knows.

It dawned on him only as he was going over the past, brushing his fingers across the White Book as though it was the only thing he had to hold on to his sanity. Jaime tried to bring back some of the pleasant memories linked to those faded pages. Because everything around him just kept tearing him down: court hearings without a court, behind closed doors, witness statement after witness statement to be neatly filed under “confidential,” or simply marked black to leave no traces, reliving those moments of the hostage situation over and over, the accusations, the hushed voices and whispers, the desperate quest for a solution so not to send the department to Aerys’ grave the same way his body disappeared into the earth.

It dawned on him only once it was far too late already.

It was only then that Jaime realized that Aerys taught him some many strokes with the paintbrush, but he also taught his right-hand man some without explaining to him what picture he was painting with those movements.

How the teams he created and crafted as his madness kept raging with the growing consumption of that wicked green drug morphed from taking the best and most suited to those who’d have best prospect of shutting up about his dirty little-big secret. Who’d be most malleable to create an elite force to surround him and keep his secrets, his Kingsguard.

_Defend the King. Obey the King. Keep his secrets. Do his bidding. Your life for his._

_But **foremost** , keep his secrets. _

_So many vows_ …

Jaime lost count how often he swore, in a chorus or only by himself, to find some reassurance to hold on to when his instincts told him to stop swearing and speak up, do something, to not stay silent as so many folks had taught him.

 _You don’t stain your commander’s reputation, are you mad_? they always told him, to the point that Jaime no longer knew if he was mad or if it was Aerys. 

So, in the end, his commander didn’t teach Jaime how to create a painting, instead, his mentor only ever showed him how to execute certain strokes with the brush to create the painting only Aerys had in mind.

And more than often, Jaime was bound to draw a painting he never would have drawn if someone had told him beforehand what it was going to look like in the end. Had he understood back then that Aerys was selecting his men to serve him in just that way, and to that purpose, Jaime, maybe, _probably_ , wouldn’t have been done speaking up in private or in front of the team every now and then – even though that was futile, considering that they had already become Aerys’ Kingsguard by the time Jaime found the strength to speak up.

Jaime shakes his head, tapping his fingers on the folder after he put it back on the table.

He has to stop obsessing about the man, those past what-ifs.

_Aerys is dead, after all._

He made sure of that.

The chance was lost, long time ago. Jaime shot the man and with him his own reputation, the man he could have become back then, the guy everyone thought was going to make something of his prodigy status, only to all from grace.

_That's the way life goes, so stop complaining, huh? Toughen up, like you tell your foolish pupils all the while, if to no avail._

A knock on the door rips Jaime out of his thoughts back to his office.

And in strides, or rather _waddles_ , Hulk… _Hunt_. Jaime really has a hard time keeping that guy’s stats in mind.

_He has **such** a forgettable face. _

“You are late,” Jaime says bluntly as the bulky guy makes his way inside.

“Sorry.”

“Is there any explanation for your being late?”

Hulk sits down without asking for it, though then again, Jaime expected no less from that clumsy, bulky guy who tends to surprise him only in the field, but never with the capacities of his mind.

“I thought I was coming in second,” Hyle explains.

“ _Right_. Well, pay better attention to the exact order next time.”

“Sure. So… what’s that fuss about?”

“As I said, I wanted to give you some feedback before we move on to the next stage of training,” Jaime exhales, trying really hard not to sound too annoyed.

One of the most tedious things about beating sense into the recruits is the seemingly endless loop of repetition. You have to show everything a million times, you have to say it a hundred times over so that, perhaps, by some wink of fate, it manifests inside their stupid little brains.

“I thought we were finally done yet.”

“We are done with Phase One,” Jaime tells him with an easy smile, folding his hands under his chin.

“How many phases are there?”

“Depends on how much you annoy me, really,” Jaime says, rolling his shoulders.

“Oh.”

Jaime still has a hard time comprehending just _how_ it is possible that Brienne ever dated that guy.

“So, I will begin with something positive… which is rare enough…,” Jaime begins, flipping open his folder if only to give Hyle a sign to pay attention. “You are doing fine in the physical aspects. Close combat is apparently your field of expertise. I don't think that this comes as a surprise, though.”

“Not really, I always knew I was a man made for the dirty work,” Hyle says with a broad smile.

 _Not for finesse, though_. Jaime thinks to himself, only to suppress any urge not to roll his eyes. _He is seriously flexing his muscles, Gods help me!_

“ _Right_. Well, that is always a favorable asset to a team. You can potentially just sit down on the bad guys who keep giving us trouble. _In any case_ … If you want to keep up with the program, you will have to do some extra-work, though. Especially in the fields of tactical thinking and independent work.”

“What is that supposed to mean?” Hyle frowns, to which Jaime replies, “That means that you have to start using your head. I know, shocking. Look, you do fine-ish in the tests. You aren’t entirely… dumb. I mean, you _are_ dumb, but you know what you have to know. I don’t expect you to be a rocket scientists. _But_ you are a classical tag-along.”

“No one’s ever told me that shit,” Hunt snaps, narrowing his eyes at the older man.

“Because from your looks and way of going about most things, it’d seem that you are more of an alpha-male. You are not, though. That doesn’t have to be a bad thing. Alpha-males are full of themselves, and they are very often entirely full of shit. We got enough of those already, so a good ratio of other folks is actually preferable. But you tag along during tasks, and that's not doing us any favors either. You rely on others to do the thinking for you,” Jaime tells him.

“Well, for what do we have those hierarchies?” Hyle asks, visibly irritated. “The one in front tells you where and how to move, aye? I thought we were supposed to rely on the others to guide us.”

“I also said that you always have to be alert and use your remaining braincells on your own,” Jaime replies. The other man just scowls at him, much to Jaime’s amusement.

He looks like a pouting teenager. _A gigantic, pouting teenager_.

“See, there is a difference between following orders and being completely done for if there isn’t someone to tell you the next steps. And _that’s_ where you are at right now. If the guy in front gets shot or only injured, you’ll likely be at a loss without his instructions. I have seen that in the simulations a couple of times already when you and your buddy, slash ginger poison, got teamed up. However, in order to make it through an actual mission, you have to be able to move on your own without me or anyone else breaking it to you,” Jaime explains.

He folds his hands under his chin, looking the guy deep in the eye as he goes on, “I don’t expect you to lead, I don’t expect you to heedlessly follow. I expect you to be a functioning team member. No more, no less.”

Hyle looks at him for a long moment, his expression stunned and irritated, but nevertheless – _gladly_ – seemingly pondering Jaime’s spoken words in all earnest.

_Now, there is wonder._

“I’ve never been called that in my whole life,” the other man says after a long, _very_ long moment of silent contemplation.

_Quite slow on the uptake that one. Which may be part of the reason why he is one of the guys least offended by my comments. He just takes forever to realize that he’s been insulted._

“Little surprise. Part of human nature is being a bag full of shit and lies,” Jaime chuckles.

“Can’t say, I’ve always been more of an honest soul,” Hyle replies, tapping against his broad chest.

“And isn’t that what a bag full of lies would also say?”  Jaime snorts.

 _Even if some people may not be good at lying, like the wench proves to be, we are all liars in the end_ , Jaime thinks to himself. _We lie to others, we don’t let them in on our secrets. And even if we do none of these things… we lie to ourselves. All of us._

We are all just liars in the end, if for different reasons, to different results. And in a world such as this, it seems hardly surprising that people take comfort in the lies they tell others or themselves. Because the real world out there? It’s an ugly place, it’s a dangerous place, which has one wondering just why the fuck we keep going as the carousel keeps going round and round no matter how sick we are of the ride.

“Sure,” Hyle says, nodding his head, only to frown again. “I don’t see that I am a tag-along, though.”

 _You also don’t see that you are dumb or that Little Griffin Shit is making you even more of a crap person than you are in general_ , Jaime means to say, but then does not.

Because that is apparently none of his business. He is supposed to train them, to make sure they don’t get themselves shot in the dick or the head, _which, upon reflection, seems to be the same in some cases_ , but it’s not Jaime’s task to babysit. And most certainly, it is not his task to give lectures about what is considered good tone, about morality, or Gods forbid, honor. 

_Because that would be really rather self-serving, wouldn’t it? From the Kingslayer of all people, ha!_

“I mean, it ain’t like I come from those rich, entitled families who don’t have to work to get a placement,” Hyle goes on to explain, twisting his thick wrist in Jaime’s direction. “The likes of the Starks, and, well, Lannisters…”

Jaime has to give him that much – he is probably too dumb to be a bag full of lies. Lies require a lot more intellect.

“No offense,” he adds after a moment after growing conscious of to whom he just said that.

“No offense taken,” the older man assures him.

_You are literally too dumb to insult._

“As I said, I ain’t rich, I didn’t go to fancy boarding schools or had private tutors. I am not the brightest lightbulb, I will admit it. I ain’t without fault. Did some shitty things in the past. Bad life choices and all – but then again, who hasn’t, aye?” Hyle questions.

Jaime tilts his head to the side, wondering whether that is the first smart thing he heard the guy say ever since he joined the team. Because it may well be, upon reflection. After all, shockingly enough, there is an ounce of truth to what Hulk has to say.

“Haven’t met one in my entire life,” Jaime agrees, rolling his shoulders.

And to Jaime’s understanding, he himself is the epitome of poor life choices.

One endless round on the carousel of bad life choices. The ticket won’t ever expire, and you can’t get off the ride no matter how much you beg, no matter how much you want to make things right and hop on another ride. You just keep spinning in the same circle, tread the same murky waters until you lose direction and just take it as fact, as unchangeable.

And suddenly, moving forward grows into walking circles.

And once you reached that stage, there seems hardly any going back anymore.

“That’s just my point. So you see, I may not be the top tier, have never been, don’t claim myself to be the next super agent the department’s ever seen, but I worked my way up the ladder, did my service to the best of my abilities, and folks said that I could try out for the Special Forces with what I got,” Hyle goes on to say. “And so I did.”

“So it wasn’t your first idea to join?” Jaime questions – because apparently, it didn’t say so in his reports.

Oh, how much Jaime misses the day of careful selection, no matter how much that twists him back into the same circle he knows means his doom.

He misses the process, the artistic quality of it, the notion of creating something, bringing gems to light that lay hidden in the departments. 

He misses Aerys teaching him what to look out for in recruits, even if it morphed eventually into qualities revolving around keeping his secrets foremost, and less so for what Jaime had in mind, of being good at the job, of excelling, of bringing forth the Kingsguard of the next generations.

He misses going incognito to watch the recruits, or those stuck at office even though they should hold gun in hand in their team, looming behind corners, sunglasses on.

He misses joking with Aerys, with his former team mates as they watched the new generations which were all but malleable clay in their hands.

He misses all of it, especially these days when even that little pleasure Jaime took for himself as times grew harder and darker around him was taken away from him. Now, he doesn’t even get that bit of leeway, that bit of space to express the remains of what once was a form of art.

And he hates himself for missing something that was corrupted from the very beginning. Jaime hates himself for wishing bac to an earlier time where he was just too blind, too blinded, to see what was already painting itself with fine pencil lines what would later on become solid ink, or blood for that matter.

_So yeah, we are all just liars in the end. And I seem to be one of the Kings._

“I didn’t really know you took folks from the outside. I always thought you had special camps for that or something,” Hyle replies, tilting his head to the side.

“Ah,” Jaime replies with a grimace. “Not really…”

_What did he believe? That we have genetic engineering going on to create master Special Forces? Just what sci-fi movies does that guy watch before sleepy time after he had his warm chocolate and his cookies?_

“Well, point is that while it wasn’t my deeply felt wish from the very beginning to join the Special Forces, I like it well enough now that I am a part of it. The folks here are all alright, as far as I can judge, and I guess we are doing a good thing, a right thing, huh? That’s always good,” Hyle tells him, very much reflective of what he wrote when Jaime assigned the essays to them to let him know just why they joined the Special Forces.

“ _Sure_. Well, but _that_ proves my point, to come back to the topic once more,” Jaime says, wetting his lips. “Your choice for coming here stems from others. That is fine, don't get me wrong. You are not the first one to join for such reasons. But that also means for you to become a functional member of the team I am trying to somehow put together you have to improve in that regard. You can follow so far?”

Hyle puckers his lips. “I ain’t dumb.”

“ _Right_. So, for you to improve, you have to stop just tagging along. Make your own choices, you see. _Within boundaries_ , that is. We will train that, don’t worry. I don’t expect any of you to undergo drastic changes without supervision… in fact, I don’t let you do anything without supervision because you are like toddlers with a gun. But I digress… Part of the second phase of the training is that I teach you guys things more individually, based on your skillsets or the lack thereof. What I just outlined to you is your big trouble spot that we will be working on in the next phase of the training, so that is what we are to do. I want you to know that beforehand so that you focus on that,” Jaime says, flipping his pen around as he leans back in his chair.

Hyle nods his head. “That makes sense.”

“Splendid that we see things the same way, then! So, that will be the biggest objective for your schedule during the second phase. That is important for you to bear in mind in both the missions and the training, though, which is why I bring this up directly to you,” Jaime tells him, before leaning over the table a bit more, his eyes focusing on him as he goes on, “If you don’t want to bother with that or think that you won’t be able to move out of your _tag-along ways_ , you know where the door is.”

Jaime has no need for rocks of people. It's enough that he is one himself, a relict of another time that seemingly forgot how to move out of its own circles, but that doesn’t mean he will let the same disease spread in the teams he is supposed to form, no matter that he didn’t select the clay from which they are to be formed.

“Man, you are easy to threaten to throw someone out,” Hyle snorts.

“Oh, make no mistake, my friend. If I make a threat, I am ready to follow through with it. I will carry it out,” Jaime tells him bluntly, leaving no doubt in his words. “But this was no threat. I am telling you what is going to happen if you are not ready or up to it. Just to be sure, there’d be no misgivings. Some folks don’t want to move out of their ways. That’s fine with me, I don’t care. But I can’t use that for this team I am trying to piece together somehow. That is why you, or anyone else for the matter, are more than welcome to just leave. I am not here to make you love it here, and I am not here to make you stay. I can get new recruits, and even if not, I can work with any number of team members. I have worked with more, I have worked with less.”

_And I worked with the Mad King. There is nothing you can do that could shock me, fellow._

Hyle looks at him for a long moment, but then nods his head. “Alright.”

“So, we are on the same page?”

“I guess,” Hulk replies, rolling his shoulders.

“I will keep reminding you again and again, so that you don’t forget. Alright, then that is all from my side. You can leave the door open as you go. Thanks for your time. I will see you out in the yard later the day,” Jaime says, leaning back in his chair.

Hyle blinks, then gets up and leaves.

Jaime twirls in his chair again, relishing the small gust of air and the bit of dizziness that is so familiar to him by now.

Round and round it goes…

That went as he expected it to go. Though Jaime still can’t help but wonder just what devil must have possessed Brienne to ever even consider dating that guy. His two braincells must be very lonely up there in his big, pumpkin-like head.

A knock on the door announces the next pupil to be shredded, ripping Jaime out of his thoughts, back to his meager office. Jaime sits up in his chair, waits for three seconds, then calls out, “Come in.”

“Octopussy, come have a seat,” Jaime says once he sees the red-haired man approach.

Theon nods as he slouches down in the seat.

_He is trying so desperately to appear cool… pathetic._

“So? What of that funny evaluation thing?” Theon asks bluntly, nodding at the stash of papers lying before Jaime on the table. The commander lets out a sigh.

“A good day to you, too. I mean, I know that your family doesn’t have the piety in their DNA, but I thought some rules of decency must have stuck with honorable Eddard Stark and his stick-up-his-arse ways of teaching the little children given into his care,” Jaime huffs. He watches as the muscles in Theon’s face tense for a moment, but then he puts his mask back on.

“Sorry about that, sir, I thought that after you dropped my nickname, it was clear that we were keeping it more casual.”

Jaime shakes his head with a chuckle as he rearranges the papers.

“Fine then. I think that is overrated anyways. To come back to your initial question: We will come to the evaluations little time from now,” Jaime tells him with a small smile. “For now, I’d rather have some conversation, all casual, the way you said you liked it best, hm?”

Theon frowns at him incredulously. “Oh, really? I never took you for one of the talkative guys.”

“You, by contrast, can’t seem to shut up,” Jaime argues, giving him a smirk.

“Guilty as charged,” Octopussy laughs his little laugh that Jaime knows means absolutely nothing.

The commander puts his pencil down, then folds his hands under his chin. “So, you tell me, what is it like, working with the man-wife?”

“Robb, you mean? Well, we’ve been best friends since we were small kids, obviously,” Theon replies almost automatically.

_He may be good at hiding certain things from others, but he can’t hide the lies from a good liar, and I happen to be really good at the task. You’ll have to do better than that to convince me, Octopussy._

“Were you surprised when you were told that you two would be joining the same Special Forces team?” Jaime goes on to question.

“I… _guess_. I mean, we went through academy together, slept in the same dorm and all… but we always thought they wouldn’t let us stick together past that stage,” Theon answers.

“Well, your foster daddy and his lover-boy and chief in command stuck to the same team, too, so perhaps honorable Eddard Stark just felt nostalgic, how would I know,” Jaime chuckles.

In fact, he knows that Robert is trying to piss at him, and that oh so honorable Ned Stark is just too much in love with the image he has of his childhood friend to bother to care to correct the New King of the Department that Jaime made as he made his statements and paved the way for the fat guy to take the throne that was still hot from Aerys’s ass.

“Right, but we were told that we shouldn’t hold our breath for it,” Theon argues. “In fact, they told us two that there was little hope… which is why I was ever the more surprised when we got the news that we’d be put on the same team.”

Jaime cranes his neck. “Who said that?”

“Is that an interrogation?” Theon huffs.

“No, just sounding out the situation,” Jaime replies.

Octopussy huffs with a smirk. “You do that only now?”

“I don’t bother to get to know people until they hit stage two of the training. Because that’s the biggest part of separating the wheat from the chaff. And I don't care about the chaff at all,” the older man explains with a grin.

“Ha, so now we are getting cozy?” Theon laughs.

“A bit. You can still get tossed any time, but now it’s perhaps no longer as likely as it was in the beginning. Because let me tell you, you were on my hit list… for very long… still are… but not as often anymore…,” Jaime chimes. “So anyway, back to the question. Who said that you shouldn’t hold your breath for getting to join the same team.”

“Eddard Stark,” the younger man replies.

“Little did he know, then,” Jaime huffs, though it does strike him as odd.

Jaime thought that Ned pushed for those matters alongside Robert, being the commander in chief’s little bitch in all matters but the lack of marriage between those two love boys.

“I don’t think he was very pleased about that, to be honest,” Theon explains with a grimace tugging at his thin lips.

“To have his own precious son and his foster kid tossed into the lion’s den? _Of course_ he wasn’t pleased. But that’s what happens when you marry Robert Baratheon unofficially, he just keeps fucking you,” Jaime snorts.

“Well, does that relate to the evaluation in _any_ way or do you just wanna bash on those two? I mean, I don’t mind, I’d just like to know if that relates to me in some way,” Theon questions, much to Jaime’s pleasure, because that is an attitude he can far better live with than bootlickers.

“I am getting there, and yes, it does. Because Ned Stark is your foster dad and you’ve been trying almost ridiculously much to please that guy,” Jaime tells him, not surprised at the young man’s facial expression going completely blank for a moment.

 _Surprise_!

“He is my foster father. _Of course_ I’ve tried,” Theon argues, playing with the hem of his shirt. “What son… foster kid wouldn’t?”

“Right, right… Answer me this, then: If I were to grant Robb a higher position than you, would you have trouble with that?” Jaime goes on to ask.

“Not really,” Theon laughs, _way too fast to pass off as real_. “That’s been the way it’s been for basically all my life. I’ve accepted that long time ago.”

“Oh, so there is trouble in paradise?” Jaime teases. “I didn’t know you two had marital difficulties. I am shocked!”

“It ain’t always sugar-coated, let’s be real, but I’m not one to complain. Makes no sense anyway. I know that I have to be grateful for what my foster family did for me and all that. Eddard treats me well even though the trouble my father’s given his family,” Theon argues.

That was one messy business, Jaime still remembers. It was never a secret that Balon Greyjoy was a bag full of shit and algae, but his little, if futile, rebellion against the Department’s distribution of power, was rather much over the top.

He probably should have seen it coming that Robert and Ned wouldn’t just keep their feet still over the matter. Just like he should have seen that they have better advisors when it comes to tactics. Safe for his daughter, all boys were taken away from him by the CPS after someone anonymously filed him for child abuse against his youngster, whom he had work for him and handle guns long before they should have been allowed.

As far as Jaime gathered, there were some other things that added to it that the children were permanently given away from him. The oldest were soon of age and just went away, joined the military and fell in service, as far as Jaime recalls. Theon, by a wink of fate, was taken in by Eddard Stark of all people, which Jaime always found rather daring of the man who actively supported Robert in taking the man down and bring to fall his little rebellion by tearing the family apart for the many crimes that were linked to Balon’s failed revolution. 

“Oh, I bet he treats you like his second-born son, if not his first,” Jaime huffs. “It’s always good to have some laddies to continue the family lineage… well, in your case not by name, but surely in the honorable spirit of holier-than-thou Eddard Stark.”

“You mean to say?” Theon asks with a grimace, clearly uncomfortable with what Jaime says.

_Hits far too close to home, doesn’t it?_

“I mean to say… as much as you seem to relish in continuing your love relationship with your man-wife, following the path your foster daddy has chosen for you… I did not come around that one curious detail as I conducted my little research.”

Theon swallows. “Which is?”

“Well, I would like to know how comes that for all the _fortune_ that was promised to you when it became apparent that you and Robb could potentially be on the same team… that you still considered joining the Ironborn division after the academy.”

Jaime watches as the young man’s face seems to come completely apart for a moment. It took him some digging, but now the commander knows it as fact, there seems to be traces of squid in this guy after all, no matter how hard he tries to howl to the moon.

“How, how do you know that?” Theon asks, breath hitched.

“I have my resources,” Jaime replies, rolling his shoulders as he slides a paper over to the red-haired man. Theon’s eyes flit over the page nervously before he sits back in his chair, seemingly feeling very much like the child that just got caught with the hands in the cookie jar.

“So?” Jaime goes on nonchalantly. “How did it come to that?”

“I wrote an application, as you found out, having obtained a copy Gods know how,” Theon says defensively. “Because I wrote it privately, to be sure.”

Jaime smirks. “As I said, I have my resources.”

“They do the job outright.”

“Oh, they do whatever I ask of them, so long the payment is right,” Jaime chuckles as he puts the paper away again. “So… how comes you didn’t follow through with it?”

Theon swallows, chewing on his lower lip as he contemplates. He tears his gaze up to Jaime, then. “Real talk?”

“Real talk.”

“After academy was over… I thought it may be for the best, you know? Robb is always the best. He’s the leader type. People follow him. I reckon he’ll be your second-in-command, too. He’s just the type.”

“Well, that is still up to me to decide, and I am not nearly as much in love with him as everyone else seems to be for some reason… maybe it’s the hair…,” Jaime snorts. “It’s so fluffy.”

Theon lets out a dry laugh. “You know, I love Robb. He’s like a brother to me… he _is_ a brother to me. Shared blood or not. Has always been. But… after academy, I thought that I was just standing in the guy’s shadow, you see? I mean, I am not Robb, won’t over be. I gave up trying a long time ago. But I ain’t the almost bad myself. I am good with the bombs, better than him, and Robb never beats me in a race, I am telling you.”

He chuckles nervously, the laugh soon ebbing into a light cough once he realizes that Jaime has no intention of replying.

“In any case… I thought it might be good to… try to step out of his shadow, you see? Be my own guy, develop my talents, instead of just being second-in-command to my foster brother,” Theon goes on.

“And what happened to that absolutely solid plan?” Jaime asks. “Because let me tell you, I would have given you just that advice – even though I don’t care a flying fuck about you.”

“My family happened to it. As you saw in my application, the best option seemed to me to try out with the Ironborn division.”

“Sure.”

“Well, I said to myself that this may be a bit of a stepping stone for me,” Theon explains. “But then… my father wrote me back, after my informal application reached me… And that is when I understood that it was all but a fantasy. I would’ve been forced to work under my younger sister, whom my father gave the position that should have been mine, had he not lost all of his sons in the CPS case filed against him after his stupid rebellion. When I went to Pyke to talk to him personally about the whole thing, he only ever told me that he was disappointed in me, that I stink of dog, that I am not his son, and all that shit…”

Theon stops, then, looking to the ground, chewing on his lower lip.

“Well, that left me with limited options,” he adds quietly.

“And so you reconsidered doing things the Stark-way,” Jaime concludes calmly.

“Well, ain’t that what I’ve become by now? A wannabe-Stark? A wannabe-wolf?” Theon huffs, only ever fooling himself.

Jaime shrugs. “Probably.”

“So… what does that tell you now?” Theon asks bluntly.

“ _That_ tells me that I stand correct in my assessment that your whole attitude is nothing but a pretty poor attempt of yours to cover up that very identity crisis you seem to be having,” Jaime tells him just as bluntly.

He doesn’t bother to hurt feelings, never did.

“Identity crisis?” Theon frowns at him.

“Well, to only take the highlights here: Daddy issues, you don’t know if you are a kraken or a wolf. And that doesn't bother so long you feel confident in your skills. But that may become troublesome in the future. That whole team constellation is a mess at the onset, let me tell you. But depending on how the team is to develop, it may put you in a different spot than your man-wife. You have to be prepared for that, and I am not sure if you are ready for that at all, no matter the smart talk you try to keep up in a vain attempt to fool me,” Jaime replies.

“You mean to say? That I’ll be jealous of him?” Theon huffs.

“Perhaps, who knows? He appears more as the over-achiever kind of guy after all. Must be annoying at times, huh?” Jaime teases.

“If you want to drive a wedge between us…,” Theon means to say, but Jaime is quick enough to interrupt him forcefully, “You think I have any interest in that you two hate each other’s guts? That means we _die_ , you shithead. Most of you still didn’t grasp that despite my continuous effort to hammer that into your thick skulls. Whatever fuck-up you have going on privately, be it being a tag-along, arrogant, picking fights with others, not integrating into the team, or being too dumb to at least get along so long you are on a mission, it gets someone killed if you don’t watch it. I don’t care for your feelings, Octopussy. I don’t care for Little Wolf’s. I personally couldn’t care less about your daddy issues. I have enough problems on my own. And digging through your marriage with Little Wolf is the least of my concerns, be sure of that.”

“Then what?” Theon asks. “Why do you bother bringing it up, then?”

“Because you didn’t make the decision to overcome your envy for your sister and instead joined your man-wife on a team that you shouldn’t have been on, let’s be real. But this is the state of affairs now,” Jaime answers.

Theon swallows. “Yes.”

“That means that you two have to learn to treat each other as _team members_ , not as wife and husband. Because if you two a quarrel, _one of us is going to get killed_. If you two are only out for looking after each other foremost, _one of us is going to get killed_. If you don’t know if you want to be part of this team but rather return to Pyke, if you let that circulate in your head to the point that you have to pull up a hellish big load of coping mechanisms, including trying _way_ too hard to play womanizer and faux smiles and boasting to cover it up, _someone is going to get killed_. Do you understand what I am getting at?” Jaime says, leaning over the table, his eyes narrow slits as he speaks.

“Someone is going to get killed if we don’t watch it,” the younger man mumbles, bowing his head slightly.

“ _Precisely_ ,” Jaime snaps, but then lets out a sigh. “Look, I am not here to play psychologist. If you need one – talk to one. If you want to leave the team because you feel like you can’t make the choice between kraken and wolf – then leave. Don’t be so foolish to drag others into your mess. You have potential to be passable enough for a man of the Special Forces, but so long you act like _that_ , you won’t ever rise above the status of being Little Wolf’s pet-kraken. Same with your foster daddy-o. You have to stop trying to impress the wrong people.”

“And who should I impress instead?” Theon asks, blinking at him.

“Two people in total,” Jaime answers. “First of all – me.”

Theon snorts at that, a bit amused. “Obviously.”

“Well, you do a poor job at it most of the time, so maybe it’s not _as_ obvious as you make it out to be, hotshot. But yes, you have to do better to impress _me_. Right now, you damn well annoy me by tagging after Ned 2.0, seeking approval like a dog in the heat. So stop trying to show off, start doing your job,” Jaime says forcefully. “That is, if you have any serious intention of becoming an integral member of this shit of a team.”

“And who is the second person I am supposed to impress, if you allow the question?” Theon asks.

Jaime leans back in his chair. “Easy enough – start to impress yourself.”

Theon looks at him rather stunned this time.

“Stop trying to impress other people than me, then you will understand what I mean by that exactly. You are making yourself ridiculous most of the time. You know when you didn’t?” Jaime asks, waving his pencil at him.

“When?” Theon asks.

“Right at that moment when we disposed the bombs. _That_ was the first time you had me earnestly impressed. _That_ is the kind of behavior I want to see from you in the future. You have skills, use them, and don’t hide them away only just to keep Little Wolf in the spotlight or to somehow keep pleasing foster daddy-o,” Jaime goes on.

Theon chews on his lower lip, fiddling with his fingers.

“You can leave that poor excuse of a womanizer and full-of-himself prick to bars to hook up with whatever girl is drunk enough to find you attractive or funny enough to take you home and fuck the small brains out of you. I don’t care, but so long you are part of this team, your ass belongs to me. That means you play by my rules. That means you have to impress me, not that rotten fish of a father, not the oh so honorable Eddard Stark. Impress _me_. Work for me, or else you won’t have any future in that exclusive club of mine,” Jaime tells him. “I have no trouble tossing any of you. If you annoy me enough, if you don’t make some changes in behavior, I will toss you out, and I won’t be sorry. Because I am not afraid of your foster daddy-o the way you seem to be, as much as you are seeking his approval.”

Greyjoy swallows thickly. Jaime reckons that was not far off the mark, in fact, he is pretty sure that was a bull’s eye.

He puts his pencil down with a clink. “But fret not, I wouldn’t say so without a plan in mind.”

“Which is?” Theon asks, blinking at him.

“You two are getting divorced for a while. Or how do you call that? A hiatus?” Jaime says, frowning to himself as he ponders.

“So what? You want to throw one of us out of the team?” Greyjoy gapes.

“No, well, I mean, I do _want_ you all gone if I am being honest with myself, but I want you two to break up that dynamic. That’s best achieved by keeping you from always tagging after each other’s scrawny asses. That means for whatever group work or partner work I want you to do from now, you two will not get to join the same team _unless_ I say so,” Jaime tells him.

“If you say that helps,” Theon huffs.

“Yes, I say that this helps. Trust me, Ned improved ten times once he was no longer in a team with Robert. And now he is ten times as worse now that he is his bitch at the department,” Jaime snorts. “You said you wanted to step out of the shadows? That is your way. That, or joining the Ironborn. There is no middle way. Either you find the means to come to terms being a krakenwolf, or you forget the wolfy ways altogether and lick your father’s boots for the rest of your life. Or that of your sister, respectively. If you want to come to terms, the second phase of the training will be about that. If not…”

“There is the door, huh?”

“Right,” Jaime chuckles.

“… Is that all?”

“Yes, that is all. You can send in your man-wife next. Don't worry, I will break the sad news to him that you two will have a divorce. I have the tissues ready, too.”

“… Alright, then,” Theon says, slowly standing up.

“You don’t expect a hug now, do you?”

“Gods no.”

“Thank goodness. Folks with daddy issues can be so clingy at times,” Jaime snorts, shuddering for effect.

Greyjoy opens his mouth to say something, but then turns around and leaves wordlessly.

Jaime puts the stash of papers and copies meant to go to the Iron Islands back into their respective folder before letting them disappear in one of his drawers. He wouldn’t want Little Wolf to get a shock that Octopussy already once considered taking a break.

Someone has to keep the lies twisting and turning, right?

“Hello?” he can hear Robb’s voice from outside the door.

“Come in, Little Wolf, I got no silver bullets to shoot you with on me, I promise.”

Ned Stark’s oldest son strides inside, reminding Jaime to a sickening degree of exactly that man.

_Poor lad got a whole load of that guy’s honorable DNA, it seems._

“Have a seat,” Jaime says, gesturing at Stark Junior to sit down, which he does promptly. Little Wolf look at him expectantly when the commander makes no intention of continuing the conversation.

Though Jaime has to give the boy that much, he doesn’t break the silence as most others would, feeling uncomfortable with the lack of interaction. But that is the blessing of those that are sure about themselves.

_And I have so many cocksure guys on my time… which is not at all a blessing._

“So… I have some good and bad news alike,” Jaime begins, folding his hands on the table.

“Well, Father always says to start with the bad news,” Robb replies.

“Your Father is a dumbass, but that… is my approach as well. Shocking to think that he and I may have something in common, yuck,” Jaime huffs, making a face. “In any case, the bad news, right. Well, I have spoken to your toyboy before, as you know, and without further ado, I will break the sad news to you as well: You two are having a divorce, my apologies.”

Stark frowns at him. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Unless I say otherwise, you two are not to team up together for any simulations or missions that may come our way,” Jaime explains. “That’s what it means.”

“You think we are too close,” Robb concludes, looking at his commander pensively.

“I think you are short before wedding bands and shared apartment, which I assume your wife would disagree with _strongly_ ,” Jaime huffs.

“Well, if you say that this will help our teamwork…,” Little Wolf means to say, but Jaime cuts him off before he can get to the point, “Yes, I say it does.”

_It’s always funny that people think they have to give me affirmation. If you think this is the right thing to do… yes, because otherwise I would not propose it. Seven Hells, he sounds far too much like his dad. Do I have to pity or hit him for it? Or both…_

“Is that all?” Robb asks, keeping his expression blank, his pokerface about alright.

“No. You will have to bear with me a bit longer, apologies, _your grace_ ,” Jaime snorts, gesturing with his hands as though he was bowing to a royal.

“Alright, then what do you want to discuss?” the younger man questions.

“I would like to discuss with you something that I found quite baffling in the course of my research,” Jaime says, leaning back in his chair, letting it swing back and forth slightly if steadily.

Ned’s son blinks at him. “You research on us?”

“You thought I wouldn’t?” Jaime scoffs.

“That may have been an underestimation on my behalf then,” Robb snorts, rolling his shoulders.

“Most likely,” Jaime chuckles. “But yes, I do my research, very thoroughly so. Part of the job. Though you will learn that over time, I _assume_.”

“Then what did your research reveal that managed to shock you so?” Robb asks.

“Well, to speak openly about the matter, I am well aware that Robert had you two assigned to my new team to… piss me off. We can go on pretending that this is not the case, but those involved… they damn well know that this is what t is,” Jaime answers.

He doesn't see the sense in spinning lies about the matter, even less so in front of the son of Eddard Stark.

Robb nods his head, licking his lips. “Father mentioned that, yes.”

“I guessed as much. Especially since Robert, the dick he is, filed that while your daddy was by the Wall where the reception is _really_ bad so that the news reached him rather late, I heard,” Jaime huffs.

When he heard that, it made Jaime feel far better about himself, despite feeling like he just got kicked in the nuts – because it meant another team that was no more than a slight aimed at him from the fat ass Jaime helped into the position where Robert can do as he pleases.

_I handed it all over to him. Along with my sister, my reputation, and whatever sense of duty I had. Man, was that a bad deal I made. Good that I never tried out for politics._

“Yeah, Father saw after Jon. There was some… trouble there,” Robb replies with a grimace, kneading his knuckles.

“I have heard,” Jaime agrees, nodding his head. “But the Night’s Watch, thankfully, is none of my concern. In any case… as far as I was able to gather from the information available to me, your father rioted quite a bit once he learned that Robert was trying to use the act of putting you two lovebirds on my team as a token to bring the glass to overflow so that I’d fuck off.”

“He was very furious, yes,” Robb agrees.

 _Good_ , Jaime thinks to himself with a smirk. _Very good._

“And I seem to have my hands on a request written by honorable Eddard Stark himself, demanding that, at the very least, you be removed from my team,” Jaime says, tapping his index finger on the sheet of paper he turns over to Robb.

The younger man studies the document for a moment, then leans back in his seat. “You really have your resources. That was confidential.”

“I know I am amazing,” Jaime chimes.

“Well, yes, Father didn’t like the commander-in-chief’s approach on that matter,” Stark says.

“Oh yes, your Father likes the idea of getting rid of me, but the means have to be as honorable as possible. And not involve him personally, I am aware. Robert seemed to have overestimated just how deep your dad has his head up his fat ass. It appears he can pull his head out if need be after all,” Jaime huffs. “Which did surprise me, I may add.”

“You mean to say?” Robb questions.

“I didn’t quite wrap my head around it how comes Ned’s will did not manifest itself. I know that Robert wants to get rid of me, but not at the risk of losing his beloved Neddy Boy. So… I couldn’t help but wonder how comes Eddard Stark never followed through with the threat he sent to the department, demanding your reassignment to another team,” Jaime explains, waving his left hand in the air dismissively. “Normally, he would have followed through. Honor would have compelled him. Or some shit like that.”

“That is the piece you couldn’t gather, then,” Robb translates.

“There seems to be no official evidence, or confidential, that is,” Jaime agrees.

“Makes sense. We handled that privately,” the younger man replies, folding his hands in his lap loosely.

Jaime turns his head to the side. “Did you?”

“Yes. I spoke to Father and told him to leave it as it is,” Robb answers, which does get Jaime by surprise for a moment.

“ _Did you_?” Jaime repeats, cocking an eyebrow at him.

_Now, that comes unexpected._

“Well, when news reached me that Theon and I would be on the same team… I was happy about that. We wanted to join one team, actually, ever since we started at the academy,” Robb says with a smirk.

_Oh, if only your friend told you just how much he wanted that… not, Little Wolf, but that is something the two of you have to sort out on your own._

“ _Right_. Childhood friendships are the most precious,” Jaime answers. “But that doesn’t mean you couldn’t have asked to have you both reassigned to another team, I assume. So, how comes you two ended up on _my_ team?”

“I asked to be put on that team,” Robb explains.

“Aha. Why would you do such a foolish thing?” Jaime makes a face.

“I have looked at the instructors available. And you seemed like the best of those open to my choice,” Stark Junior replies.

“Not on the morality scale, I am sure,” Jaime scoffs, if amused.

“Without a doubt. But I looked through the statistics. Your teams? They have the highest rates of successful cases. While you have a high rate of those who leave the program before completing the training, you have a high percentage of recruits who eventually make it to the top in the department,” Robb tells him. “Now, to be sure, I don’t always agree with your methods. I rarely do, actually. And truth be told, from what my Father told me, you don't seem like a very trustable guy. But you get the job done. And you get people to excel. And that is what I want. I want to become good at my job. Not just passable enough.”

“You want to make daddy proud,” Jaime teases.

Robb nods his head slowly. “… Yes.”

“You don’t do that working for the guy whose guts he hates, you know?” Jaime points out to him.

“No, but I hope I will by showing him that I can become really good at my job. You see, after my wedding, things have been down the hill. Father thinks I am just being rebellious, but I am not. I want to prove myself, and for that, I need the best training. And I think you are the one who can give that to me,” the younger man tells him, credibly so.

“What has you think that?” the commander questions.

“You don’t care for what people think of you. You don’t care for what the commander-in-chief thinks. You don’t care for what my Father does, and of the latter, there are only very few people who do that. My Father is…,” Robb means to say but Jaime interrupts him, “A legend. An epitome they want to make statues of, I am aware.”

“Exactly. You are the one guy who will not give me laurels for the mere fact that I am the son of Eddard Stark,” Robb goes on.

“No, I make living hell of your life for that reason, proudly so,” Jaime chimes.

“I can live with that,” Robb replies, rolling his shoulders. “But I can’t live with it to only ever be seen as my Father’s son. I have to make my own decisions and think about my own career. And I didn’t feel like I was getting that if I were to join a team that would likely give me a head start for bearing a certain name. If I get a promotion, I want to get it for my service, not my name.”

“Oh, so we are thinking of promotions already?” Jaime snickers.

_Don’t they always, though?_

“I don’t want to roam around just being the gun carrier, not going to lie. I want to lead a team one day. Because yes, I want to take after my Father, but I want to do it to my conditions. And if that means working with…,” the younger man says, but then stops, which has Jaime let out a dry laughter until he completes for him, “The Kingslayer?”

Robb coughs lightly, seemingly embarrassed for a moment right there, but quickly gathers himself again to reply, “Yes, then that is what it is. And that is why I told him to leave me on the team.”

“For fuck’s sake,” Jaime exhales wearily. “Does everyone try to resolve family issues through joining my team? I feel so used.”

Robb shrugs. “ _You_ asked.”

“Yeah, I better shouldn’t have, I assume.” The commander makes a face.

“So? Does that answer your question?”

“More than sufficiently, yes,” Jaime chuckles.

“So? What do you make of that now?”

“You just confirmed what I had in mind for you anyway. Which is good. I rather keep to my old ways. I am so used to them,” Jaime laughs without really meaning it.

Because he hates it to be stuck in his own routines.

“And what does that entail now?” Robb asks.

“This entails that for the second stage of the training program, you will not just have to deal with the divorce, but with some uncomfortable changes in-between,” Jaime tells him, which has the young man frowning at him. “Which are?”

“You see, on the last mission we went to, where the fucktart tried to blow us all up, we easily agreed that you’d lead one of the teams from the other side of the building. You are what I tend to call a _natural leader type_. Folks like you and your hair, you have no problem gathering them around you like a good-looking septon in his prime has the young, prim women’s hearts fly to him,” the older man says.

“I always thought that is a good thing,” Robb argues with a grimace.

“It can be, but it can also be a nuisance. Because people grow accustomed to that. Not just you, but also those who let you assume the role. You are good at this, there is no denying. You can be better, there is no denying that either, but the point is rather this: If people like you are put into leading positions too early, the others will lose interest in thinking for and leading themselves, just like you will lose that sense of following the lead of others, which can be problematic,” Jaime explains, now perfectly sincere.

He has seen the likes of Robb, hundreds of them. He is not unique in that way. And they can fall like any wannabe officer who thinks he is a big gun when really he is a tiny _Beretta Pico_ that women could carry around in their clutch purses.

“I can very well deal with…,” the younger man means to object, but Jaime cuts him off before he can even propose his defense, not interested in that at all, “You say that because you never had it, Little Wolf. You never were in a position on the job where you had to work underneath people.”

“Of course I did. I had my instructors, I had my…,” Robb tries once more, but Jaime simply isn’t having it, “But those are your _superiors_. Obviously, you recognize them as such. It’s quite another thing when it comes to having to work under those who know about as much as you do. Who are your _equals_. And _that_ is what you yet have to prove to be able to cope with. Because let me tell you, Little Wolf, people do struggle with that. And those with the leader genes are even more prone to that. It is annoying to bow one’s head and take the orders even though you say to yourself inside your head that you could do it better. So, for the second phase of the training, we will expose you to new input. I want to see how you fare not operating on your natural terrain.”

“You won’t put me into the position of leading smaller squads, you mean,” Robb replies, less of a question than of an irritated statement of what Little Wolf seemingly understands to be fact already.

“Yes.” Jaime nods.

“To teach me some lessons of being humble, or what?” the younger man scoffs.

“Far from it, you can boast as much as you want. But you just said it – you came here for a purpose. What sense does it make to teach you something that you are already passable enough at, you tell me? You want to learn something new? I will teach you,” the commander tells him.

“To follow someone else’s lead?”

“ _Yes_ , because you are this special case of having both the leader genes, and those of an allrounder when it comes to skillsets. You do well in most of anything without much effort. You are good at shooting, you are good at running, you are good at this and that. The literal fuckboy any teacher grows wet over as he promises to wipe the blackboard for him,” Jaime snorts.

Robb huffs at that. “How does that relate now?”

“In a team, allrounders are always nice to have. They can work any position at any time, but… even allrounders should have a chance to investigate what they are really… _good_ at. You have nothing specific about you, no rough edges. But if I put you in different spots, we may see where you prove to be rather special after all. And once we have that, we will know what to drill into your curly-haired head until you become an expert in that field,” Jaime tells him, which does seem to catch Little Wolf a bit off-guard, seemingly having expected nothing but boasting and giving him shit over his father for the matter.

_Little do people know about me…_

“You want to learn something new? _That_ is how you learn it. You find out what you need to learn or where you can improve drastically, and then we amplify that. At least that is the way _I_ handle it,” Jaime goes on. “I don’t know if your daddy-o does it the same way. In fact, I doubt it, but that is how _I_ do it. You signed up to the club yourself, as you admitted, so… you will have to roll with that, whether you want to or not.”

The younger man blinks at him, seemingly having expected quite something else from that conversation, but Jaime likes it that way.

If you catch them off-guard, they are easier to form and bend out of their usual shapes.

“… Alright, well, that comes a bit unexpected…,” Robb says, blinking, running his fingers through his thick, dark curls.

“I hoped. It would be rather boring if you could already guess it. Because you are not the brightest light of the bunch anyway,” Jaime snorts. “So yes, that is the plan for now. You get a divorce, you have your crown ripped away from you, and you will have to do what the peasants do. Trust me, you will love to hate it once I am finished with you.”

_And that is a promise I intend on keeping._

“That’s what I signed up for,” Robb says, nodding his head.

“And that is why I hate folks like you. You are far too positive,” Jaime scoffs.

“I seem to have that from my mother,” Robb says, looking at him with an uncertain smile.

“I assume that’s part of the few good genes you have, then. I always quite liked your mother,” Jaime snorts. “In any case, that is all from my side. Unless you want me to babble more about how I will torture you, you can send in Curly Hair next. I know he has to be done in time to get the mani-pedi routine done for our next gig.”

“As you will, sir. Thanks for the… honest talk,” Robb says, getting up. “I appreciate it.”

“You can trust me on this one, you won’t get any sugar-coated stuff from me. Ever. Bad for the teeth,” Jaime calls out as Robb exits. “And who would want to see your perfect choppers getting blemishes, right?”

He lets out a light chuckle as the door closes.

 _That was rather interesting, even shockingly informative_ , Jaime thinks to himself as he takes out the next stash of papers. _Who could have guessed that Little Wolf actually went up against the Alpha Wolf? There seems to be wonder indeed._

Though Stark Junior still has to bring proof for that. Jaime knows that some boys just like to make big words to somehow differentiate themselves from their iconic father figure. He should know, he’s spent many years trying to run from the Lannister Empire meant to last a thousand years, if only just to piss off Tywin Lannister.

In the end, we are almost always running from our fathers and mothers, whether we love them or hate them, somehow fearing to become like them, or even if we try to take after them, do it better, do it right what was done wrong the last time.

_Just that we all are bound to fail miserably. Because the world just keeps spinning out of course in the ways we see least coming._

Jaime watches as Loras comes inside without bothering to knock on the door.

 _This is going to be fun_! he thinks to himself as the lad sits down.

“Curly Hair, pleased to see that you could find the time.”

Loras nods his head briefly. “Sure. So? What does the evaluation say about me?”

“We will come to that soon enough. I wanted to get to know you a bit better first.”

“You told us that you don’t care for us. _Numerous_ times,” Loras argues.

“And I don’t care for you. That doesn’t mean I can't find something interesting about you, though,” Jaime points out to him with a slight grin tugging at his lips.

“So? What would you like to talk about, then?” the younger man questions.

“I will be direct on the matter,” Jaime says.

“Good, I don’t like to beat around the bush,” Loras agrees.

Jaime chuckles at that. “Yeah, I bet you don’t like to beat around bushes anyway, unless they are accompanied by a thick tree trunk.”

Loras rolls his eyes at him. “That was almost funny right there.”

“Not my best, I will admit,” Jaime snorts.

“So? Now that we got that one out of the way?”

“What is the issue between you and Tarth?” Jaime asks bluntly, which unfolds perfectly before him as Loras’s eyes open wide for a moment.

_You lure them in, even if it's just by pissing them off in the stupidest ways, and then you knock them right into the dust. It’s by far too easy. Every damn time._

“Hm? I got no issue with her. We work well enough as a team,” Loras argues defensively.

“Oh, you do rather well together indeed,” Jaime agrees, letting his gaze wander back over the papers. “But I am not blind, you see. I do notice that you would rather _not_ be put on one team with her, even though I feel ever the more tempted to do it, then, if only just to piss you off. I also notice that you two, while able to keep civil, don’t talk about personal stuff most of the time. Keep it general. And that you walk away whenever you get a chance.”

“I thought that this would be to your liking. I don’t have to love everyone around here, do I?” Loras huffs, folding his hands in front of his chest.

“Most definitely not. But I didn’t come around to notice. Just like I couldn’t come around to notice that you two have some sort of history going back,” Jaime says.

“You can hardly call that a history,” Loras huffs.

“Your boyfriend and her were… privately involved,” Jaime goes on, watching the younger man for his reactions which say much more than his words ever could.

Loras rolls his shoulders as he hunches forward in his seat. “Yeah, so?”

“You see how you react right now? Defensively? Sitting up straighter to make yourself appear threatening? _That_ is why it is of my concern,” Jaime explains to him.

“There’s nothing much to say. Yes, we share a past because we have relationships with Renly, in different ways. But that's past now,” Loras insists.

“It doesn’t seem to be to you. Just like it doesn’t seem to be to her. The wench always looks like someone took her favorite gun away when you give her that certain look of misgiving,” Jaime argues.

“I won’t let that ever affect me on a mission. In contrast to _some_ , I can do my job outright and keep the private away from it,” Loras tells him. “I have done that for years.”

“Right, right, which is why you didn’t want to join the Special Forces _at all_ and basically just wanted to keep around Renly Baratheon after that accident he had some years back,” Jaime says, reading off one of the pages of research he conducted for Curly Hair’s evaluation.

Loras looks at him. “Where do you have that information from?”

“None of your business,” Jaime chimes. “I just know that it was your dearest sister who pushed you and made arrangements for you to pursue the career even though you wanted nothing but play bodyguard for your boyfriend, not just in bed.”

Tyrell licks his lips as he slouches back in his seat. “Marge did that because Grandmother told her so.”

“And what did the great dame Olenna Tyrell have to do with that, you tell me?”

“Willas cannot take on such a job even if he wanted because of his bad leg. Margaery is supposed to be an influential young woman to take after Grandmother. And as it appears, everyone who is of rank and name is _somehow_ involved in the Department,” Loras explains.

“Right, right, Baratheon, Stark, even us Lannisters have our hands in this… the Targs once did, but ever since that _small_ incident between Aerys and me, that was somewhat shaken up,” Jaime agrees.

_All big families gathered at one dinner table to poke each other with the forks. Isn’t that wonderful?_

“Grandmother believes that if we have at least one heir to Highgarden in federal government, we have all bases covered,” Loras goes on, barely moving his jaws apart as he speaks.

“I am sorry, but you _seriously_ joined the Special Forces because your granny told you so?” Jaime teases.

“Have you ever met her?”

“Once,” Jaime answers. “She is intimidating.”

“ _Exactly_. But that was only part of the reason. That is how it was all set into motion. Marge made the arrangements behind my back, then got Renly into supporting that, and far sooner than later, they presented me with the _fait accompli_ and I just had to sign the papers,” the younger man tells him.

“Why did you? Or did loverboy threaten you with sex withdrawal if you decline?” Jaime jokes.

“He reminded me that this is what I wanted to do before Grandmother insisted that I pursue such a career,” Loras says, not looking at him.

“Oh, so it was the boyfriend after all,” Jaime chuckles.

_The things we do for love, huh?_

“You can laugh it up all you want, but he had the rights of it. I signed the papers for the training at the academy the same day I got my high school diploma. I wanted to fight criminals. Like out of the handbooks. That I am apparently good at what I am doing obviously helped me make the decision. But then… well, things shifted, after the incident with Renly. I could now go on pretending that I came to that all by myself or face the truth that Grandmother and my sister kept pushing me when I stubbornly refused. And I tend to go with the latter. If that has you laugh, then that is your problem, not mine,” Loras tells him defiantly.

“I have no problem with that, believe it or not,” Jaime tells him truthfully.

He gets it. He honestly does. Sometimes, you need someone to push you when you want to keep still. Sometimes you need someone to give you a wake-up call.

_Sometimes you need someone to push you under a cold shower and…_

Loras frowns at him. “Then why do you bother to ask?”

“Because I hoped that you would spill the beans about why you have beef with the wench, but apparently, I underestimated you for a second there,” Jaime replies with a smirk.

“Us Tyrells learn very early on to keep our secrets.”

“Not as often as you give yourself credit for, but… if you take after your grandmother in any way, then yes, you will learn that art rather sooner than later,” Jaime snorts. “But I am taking from that that you have no interest in telling me what that is about.”

“Then you guess right. If it were to affect the team, I would say something, but as of now, I don’t see that it does. You can ask her, if you want. I suppose you’d have better chances squeezing the truth out of the woman than me, but I just want to forget about it, and that she wants to keep it back up only ever annoys me. I don’t have to be friends with her, I don’t want to be friends with her. But that doesn’t mean I can’t work with her,” Loras argues.

Jaime nods his head. “Alright. Good that we talked about that… so we can now move on to the next topic… which relates more to the evaluation.”

“And what would that be?” Loras asks, sounding annoyed.

“Despite your insistence that you don’t let feelings affect your work, I didn't come around noticing that you have that ongoing rivalry with Octopussy,” Jaime says, tapping his pen against the paper repeatedly.

“The asshole keeps annoying me, what am I supposed to say?”

“The question should be what you are supposed to _do_ to change that. You two behave like two guys who’d do best fucking it out to put an end to that misery of a dick-measuring contest.”

Loras blows air up his nose. “He’s not my type.”

“I still find it surprising that he is _anyone’s_ type, but that is not the point. The point is that you, for _whatever_ the reason, feel the utter wish to outsmart each other. And my best guess is that you are… a lot like me,” Jaime says, which has Loras gape at him, _as expected_.

“Oh, ow, insulting,” the younger man grunts.

“You should take it as a compliment. I was an overachiever in my earlier years. Always wanted to be at the top of the food chain,” Jaime says.

“Who doesn’t?” the younger man asks with a frown.

“Those who don’t happen to be arrogant pains in the ass,” Jaime replies. “You are cocksure, which is fine. I like people who don't tag after me, waggling their tails for a single praise. But the likes of you? You are not entirely unproblematic either. Because you think that everything comes to you naturally, and that even if you only act at eighty percent, you still surpass them all.”

“Because I do,” Loras huffs.

Jaime leans back in his chair. “If you think that, you shouldn’t be on a team.”

Tyrell stares daggers at him. “Which is meant to imply?”

“You want to be the arrogant pain in the ass, the lone wolf who is above them all. Because you think you are. And who knows? Maybe that is actually right, but frankly speaking, I have no use for the likes of you, then. At least not on a team,” Jaime tells him bluntly.

“You said yourself…,” Loras means to say, but Jaime cuts him off harshly, ““I know what I said. I have a rather good memory, Curly Hair, you don’t have to remind me. What I am getting at here is that I know the likes of you. I have been the likes of you, and largely, I still am. Which makes me shit of a team member, but I know I am, while you, by contrast, still seem to be chasing your own talent because you believe that you are the best anyway. But it doesn’t matter whether you are the best or not. What matters is that, so long you have any intention of working _in_ a team, you have to work _with_ the team. Whether they are a bunch of shitheads or not.”

“If that is what you think will do me favors, then that is what it is. And how do you think will I be purged of my arrogance?” Loras huffs.

 _He really takes too much after me_ , Jaime thinks to himself. _It’s like seeing myself during my younger years. And damn, was I an arrogant little shit._

“I already broke the news to Octopussy and Little Wolf, and now, you become part of the most awkward of threesomes,” Jaime laughs, pleased with himself.

Loras makes a face. “Which is supposed to mean what exactly?”

“I congratulate you. You are now the work-wife-or-husband, I don’t know whether you are top or bottom, of… Octopussy,” Jaime announces, flashing Loras a faux smile.

“You want me to work with that jackass the whole time?” the younger man gapes.

“I know, isn’t that great?!”

“You can’t be serious.”

“While my tone is delighted, I am absolutely sincere about the matter. It’s either that, or you let granny give you a lift back home so that you can become a model over at Highgarden,” Jaime replies, leaving no doubt about that statement being true.

“And how is that supposed to teach me, you tell me?”

“If you manage to work with Octopussy, you will have no trouble getting along with _anyone_ you have dick-measuring contests with, because that will exorcise that demon from you altogether.”

They have different if overlapping skillsets. Jaime is fairly certain that teaming those two up will prove to be fruitful. They will be bound to learn from one another, as much a they are going to hate it.

Which is a double advantage for him in turn, because Jaime doesn't just get to teach those shitheads something, but he gets to see them cry ugly tears and complain like pouty children while at it.

And that is one of the sweetest melodies there is.

“I guarantee you that we will be at each other’s throats,” Loras warns him.

“Which is of advantage to me because that means I get rid of you. You see, whatever option I take, I win. And isn’t that _wonderful_?” Jaime laughs.

“Whatever,” Tyrell scoffs. “Is that all?”

“That is all. I forgot to bring the flowers, sorry.”

Loras stands up abruptly. “Well, then I will be off.”

“You do that, Curly Hair. Congratulations for the next stage of hell!” Jaime calls out.

“Thanks.”

With that, Loras is out the door. Jaime pushes up from the chair as the door falls shut, stretching out his limbs.

One of the things he _does_ enjoy about those evaluations is the theatrical quality those dialogs have. It’s a play, it’s a puppet theater, and Jaime can pull the threads however he pleases. The entrance can set the entire mood for a conversation. The way he flicks his pen, whether he looks at them intensely or turns his back on them. It is all part of the performance, and they can do nothing much but play along.

And so, the next act is in place.

Jaime seats himself on the edge of the table, pushes the chair for his _acting partner_ to soon take the seat away from him, and then waits for said man to make his entrance.

Ronnet Connington doesn’t take long to stride into his office, always reminding the commander of a little weasel. “Hello.”

“Good day.”

Little Griffin Shit sits down in the pushed back chair, seemingly irritated at the informal setting Jaime just created with two simple rearrangements.

“So, uhm, do we start to talk about the evaluation at once or…,” Ronnet begins, studying Jaime for a longer moment.

“We will turn to that once I see fit,” Jaime replies, letting his long legs dangle over the edge of the table.

Connington looks at him, irritated. “Alright. Then what do you want to talk about instead?”

“About you, actually,” Jaime answers, clapping his hands together before folding them in his lap. “Even though I couldn’t give less than a shit about you, but that is common knowledge by now, I suppose. So why bother repeating that which you already know, huh?”

“Well, then go ahead,” Ronnet says, rolling his wrist in the air.

“You know, just this morning, I went back over your essays. Which were… _horrible_ , to say the least, but oh well, I am not looking for the next bestselling author here, am I?” Jaime snorts.

Connington laughs lightly as well. “Likely not.”

“It was an interesting re-read, your essay, that is.”

“Why?” Ronnet asks, frowning.

“I mean, I rarely have people who are as bluntly as you were to outline how you consider the Special Forces a stepping stone for you to climb the ladder towards a higher-ranking position within the department,” Jaime says. “That actually takes a bit of guts to write, I will give you that much.”

“I am just honest, sir. I didn’t see the sense in trying to pretend to be on fire for a team that… well, let’s be honest here, shall we?” Ronnet asks, seemingly falling perfectly into the little hole Jaime dug for him.

“By all means,” he chimes.

“That team? You don’t give a shit about it. You said it yourself. The others? They don’t give a shit either. So… why would I? I don’t look out for friends here. I look at things practically. Undercover work is my field of expertise. That got me here, but it doesn’t get you higher salaries, and the percentages of going under forever? Not so good for those who do the job,” Connington says.

“And you think Special Forces will keep you out of trouble? Then you didn’t read the flyer that hung around the office you worked at before very carefully, I assume,” Jaime scoffs.

“I know that Special Forces are one of the riskiest.”

“If not _the_ riskiest.”

“Precisely. But of all those who worked for the Special Forces, almost any candidate who was a on a team for roughly one to three years could already acquire a passably enough leading position at another department. Four to five years and you have almost no trouble getting into a leading position at any department of your choosing. I don't want to do patrol work for the rest of my days, sir. Neither do I dig the idea of going undercover forever. Special Forces seemed like the best option for me. I want to have…,” Ronnet explains, and Jaime goes on to suggest, “Power? Influence?”

“I want to have a certain position, and I don’t want it to constantly get questioned. _That_ is all. You can laugh it up about the matter, but that is what I want for my life. I don’t dig ending up…,” Connington says, but then stops.

“Like me?” Jaime snorts.

“Like you, like Qhorin Halfhand who got killed thanks to rookies’ mistakes, for all I heard, like Aerys Targaryen…,” Ronnet says, then pauses, likely feeling very smart about himself right at this moment.

“Yeah, he didn't enjoy his last moments, that much I can say for certain,” Jaime snorts.

_No, he kept screaming. Burn them all! Burn them all! Burn them all!_

“The point is… I have no trouble working for my position. I get the job done. Always have. But I don’t want to flush myself down the drain just because I believe that I have to serve the country till I get myself killed. I don’t want to lead a team in the field. I want to have a respectable position, that’s all. And Special Forces seems like a good way of getting there. Because I have the skills, I have the knowledge, I have what it takes to be good at this. So why would I go another way if that is open to me?” Ronnet tells him.

“Man, you have such a spirit, such devotion,” Jaime snorts. “I can feel it right in my heart.”

“I don't claim to have it. Never did. So, the way I see it… we two could now go beating about the bush, pretending that this isn’t what I want and we could keep telling ourselves that you want us to be great team mates who get the job done because we feel righteousness surging us. Or we could just admit it to ourselves that this is bullshit.”

“Interesting thought right there,” Jaime says, tapping the flat of his and against his right thigh.

“I am just being honest.”

“Sure…,” Jaime says, tilting his head to the side. “Which has me wondering, though.”

Ronnet blinks. “About what?”

“If you care that little about all this here… then why do you bother shitting on your team members?” Jaime asks. “There seems to be a bit of a discrepancy right there, wouldn’t you agree?”

“You mean Tarth,” Ronnet says bluntly.

“Well, you also piss me off, but that may be because I am allergic to your bullshit.”

“Look, as I said, I don’t care for leading positions on a team in the field. But I do have something against favoritism,” Connington says.

Jaime frowns. Now, _that_ is something he didn’t expect to see coming.

But that is the thing with those performances. Someone always forgets what’s written in the script.

“ _Favoritism_? I hit you all equally as much, and I take pleasure in all of your pain. I hate you all equally, rest assured,” Jaime argues.

“She is the one girl in how long? who’s entered Special Forces. I think she is the first time for you that you have to deal with a woman in your records ever, too,” Ronnet begins to explain.

Jaime tilts his head to the other side, slowly shaking his head. “How is that of concern now?”

“Well, from that, I do understand that there is a certain amount of… _caution_ people seemingly find necessary to apply in that case. She’s a girl and all.”

“She kicks your ass about alright, woman or not,” Jaime argues, frowning.

“Yeah, she’s great at brutal strength. But I don’t think Tarth ever would have made it here if not for her old buddy Goodwin putting in a good word for her before he pushed the daisies. Needless to mention of he relations to Renly Baratheon, who happens to be the favorite brother to Robert Baratheon, who owns this shit house here,” Ronnet says, gesturing around.

“Actually, that _shit house_ you are in right now belongs to me. I bought it some five years back,” Jaime laughs, though he doesn’t find this just now a joking matter.

“The point I was trying to make is this: She’s had influential friends. We can now all, yet again, pretend that this didn’t have its merits for Tarth, or we could face the truth that under most other circumstances, she wouldn’t even have been considered,” Connington then says.

Jaime licks his lips. “How do you come to that conclusion?”

“I have two eyes inside my head?”

“Well, then why don’t you seem to bloody well use them?” Jaime questions.

“Be real with yourself, man. We have Hyle Hunt. What do we need Brienne of fuckin’ Tarth on tops? She has brute force, I grant you, she can follow orders. But what else is there that qualifies her other than her name and relations?” Ronnet scoffs.

Jaime leans forward slightly. “Well, you tell me, what is there beside your talent for undercover work and that loose mouth of yours that qualifies _you_?”

“I earned my spurs,” Connington insists rather forcefully.

Jaime has to try hard not to smirk.

_How easy it is to cut past his defenses… you just take him by the balls and squeeze a bit and he’ll be screaming like a little pig._

“She worked for the department as well. As did anyone who is currently part of the program,” Jaime argues, keeping his voice calm and even.

“As I said, I don't like the favoritism that is apparently part of the game here at the department. I don't like that folks get in just because they have relations. I didn’t have them, and still, I worked myself to be in the top tier of undercover officers.”

“As though your daddy’s name didn’t have any part in that,” Jaime snorts.

“I never used that.”

“ _Right_.”

“You can refuse to believe me, but whatever I achieved, _I_ achieved,” Connington insists stubbornly.

_He is trying way too hard…_

“And you think Tarth only ever used the achievements of others to get here?” Jaime huffs. “Or how am I supposed to understand that?”

“Judging by the way things go, I think there is favoritism. Not just on the official side. I think _you_ fall into the same pit for _some_ damned reason, because she is not at all as charming as I thought it’d take to convince the likes of you of much of anything. But you single her out. Either because you see something in Tarth which I think there is not. Or you keep dragging her along because of quotas or because you don’t want to give up on her just yet when you would have thrown out…,” Ronnet says, but then Jaime holds up both his hands, which has the man stop in irritation.

“I will interrupt your bullshit right now because _damn_ , my allergies are calling,” Jaime snaps. “She worked through the program just fine. And that without me taking any part in it. So, if you think you can come to me here with what you likely assume to be solid arguments about how Tarth didn’t get tossed because she doesn’t have a cock swinging between her thighs, then you couldn’t be more wrong. In case it did not dawn on you just yet, Connington, you are the one standing at the top of the shooting list for quite some time now. And that even though you worked _so_ very had and are _so_ very gifted.”

Connington doesn’t manage anything much but gaping at Jaime after those words. “What?”

“You are the weakest link in the whole team. That is plain matter of fact. And now I know, this comes as a shock to you because you are used to being considered the big gun undercover officer. But let me tell you this: Here at King’s Landing, there is hardly any passable undercover work going on ever since Aerys Targaryen… ended his career. Those who are good? They are at the Faceless Men division. Whatever it is that we have in King’s Landing is the collecting tank for those that are good enough for little undercover jobs that the Faceless Men don’t even roll out of bed for.”

Ronnet looks at him, perfectly stunned, mouth standing open, looking so very punchable that Jaime has to try hard to resist the urge.

“That means, _sure_ , you are the best of your department, but by comparison, you are not nearly as good as you give yourself credit for. I have my evaluations here, and they confirm that which I already guessed when they gave you to me. You are Robert Baratheon’s translation of a fuck-you to me personally. He wants to annoy me with you. And granted, he achieves it daily, because _damn_ , are you frustrating, but if we want to be perfectly honest with one another? If someone would have been tossed by now… it would have been _you_ , not Little Wolf, not the Hulk, not Octopussy, not Curly Hair, not the Wench. It would have been you all this time. _Frankly speaking_.”

“You’re shitting me, right? I am supposed to be… worse than her?” Ronnet asks, still not wanting to believe.

Denial is always at the front with those who don’t know just how limited they are.

“It’s a plain matter of fact. You only have the biggest ego, but that is hardly an achievement,” Jaime huffs.

“If I was as bad as you say, then why didn’t you toss me? What’s the purpose of all this? If you want to shit on me, you might just as well have done it straight away instead of tiptoeing around it until the second phase of the training,” Ronnet pouts. “To save us both the effort – and the time.”

And Jaime wished he could, but he went through his data, and the solution to the problem named Little Griffin Shit seems rather simple.

_I just don’t like it._

But then again, what does he like about that job anyway?

“Didn’t you know that us Lannisters can shit gold?” Jaime snorts, not breaking eye contact with the man just once as he speaks. “You are… a piece of shit, okay? But I know that I can make you into… _not_ a piece of shit. I can do that. I have that magic. If you cooperate, we can make you an integral member of that team. I can have you work a position that will cater your level of skill, I can teach you new things that will help you both on the team and with your future career. And as you said, some years from now, you can then go your ways, get yourself some fixed job that will guarantee you a good annual salary. You can totally get that from me, no bother.”

Griffin Shit frown at him incredulously. Though Jaime can’t really blame him. He probably expected praise and glory when he walked in, but was by now prepared to be thrown out after the shots Jaime fired.

However, Jaime played this game for far too long by now. And he is aware that the tango he is supposed to dance is actually with the fat ass of a commander-in-chief. Jaime knew that by the time he saw the files of his newest recruits, long before he ever saw them live and in color.

And in that very special game, this little dance, it’s not just about keeping the upper hand, about keeping control, but also about keeping those close to you whose game, in its entirety, you have not yet grasped.

_Keep your friends close but your enemies closer, right?_

“But there is one thing you have to grasp about this whole deal: I have no trouble having you here temporarily. And I do appreciate that you are so outspoken bout it. That makes it easier for me to calculate. But since you were that honest, you have to face the consequences that entails,” Jaime goes on.

“Which are?” Ronnet asks, blinking.

And here goes the climax for this little act: The deal with the red-haired wannabe-devil.

“You want to leave at some point. That means you have to be replaceable. And… that you _are_ , so we are good on that, actually. I have to frame the team. That now comes in the second step. And I have to bear in mind that you should not become the center of attention because that is not the space you should, want or even if you wanted… _could_ … occupy. You are the guy who’s best suited for the margins. So that once you leave us all for your _wonderful_ job awaiting you in the future, we just have to wave at you as you go and then move the fuck on with the job we are intent on doing,” Jaime tells him bluntly.

Because, _for some fucked up reason_ , Jaime feels like glimpsing at the future again, if only hesitantly so.

“I didn’t mean that as an insult, it’s just…,” Connington means to say, but Jaime won’t let him have it, “You mean by far too little to me to be in the least offensive, Griffin Shit, rest assured. As I said, and I _did_ mean it: I appreciate that you are open about what you want and how far you are willing to go for this team. That helps me keep all of you safe, which is my primary function here. But I can’t care about your hurt feelings because you feel cheated out of a position you don’t even want to have just because your masculinity is that fragile.”

“Excuse you?” Ronnet gapes, blinking repeatedly.

“Connington, if you feel that threatened by the wench, then that means that, _yes_ , you are rather fragile. The woman is better than you whether she had the relations she has or not, whether Goodwin had made the calls or not. And it doesn’t take much to be better than you, I may add. Her lack of a dick has nothing to do with that, even though you seem so very desperate to make it about that,” Jaime tells the man who can do nothing much but stare at him as he delivers one blows after the other.

_But he had it coming._

“And just because you still feel butthurt over… _whatever_ it is that you two have between you… which I do not give a rat’s shit about, by the way, I don’t have to play her down or you up. You fit into the team because you are a blank slate. I can write on you however it pleases me. I can make use of you the same way you want to make use of me. But don’t expect me to praise you for achievements you didn’t make, don’t expect me to put you at the center of attention when you yourself asserted that you don’t care about what others think about you. Own up to your words, own up to your own future planning. Take the place by the margins and stop being a fuckboy to those who want to integrate into that team,” Jaime snaps.

“Rich coming from you after all those speeches about how we don’t have to concern ourselves getting friendly,” Ronnet huffs, his eyes narrowed as he tries to regain some of the ground he lost in the conversation so far.

“I am not talking about being friendly. I am talking about the basic line of team work. That is the bottom line of what I expect from anyone who wants to have a spot on my team,” Jaime retorts, a speech he feels like having given a thousand times already.

_And yet, they don’t learn it._

“But…,” Connington tries, but Jaime isn’t having it, gesturing at his own throat as he goes on to say, “Honestly, I just had it all the way up to here with you and your attitude towards anyone not you. You assume authority though you say you don’t seek it. You crave attention though you say you don't want it. You want to be a leader, so you have the Hulk tail after you because that gives you a feeling of superiority. And I can’t have it that you torpedo my efforts of somehow bringing balance to a team that, _yes_ , is not meant to be a bunch of friends fighting crime.”

Ronnet’s mouth opens and closes wordlessly, either because he doesn’t find the words or because it starts to dawn on him that this is a fight he cannot win.

“If you can’t live with the roles I assign to each of you, you can fuck off. I told you before, and I am telling you again, I can write you a nice report for you to use to enroll for another team, another program, I don’t care. But don’t expect me to cater your interests for five years in the future without you giving me back what I ask of you in turn. And that isn’t much to begin with. All I am asking of you is that you behave yourself. That you fall in line, yes. And that you damn well stop undermining my authority based on the decisions I make with regards to how I deal with my recruits.”

_So long all stay in their corners, no one gets hurt and no one cries like a baby. Isn’t that a sound deal?_

“So… your evaluation is basically to tell me that I am supposed to fall in line and keep my head low,” Ronnet questions, obviously feeling offended.

_Boo-hoo._

“I am giving you what you ask for, just to my conditions. But yes, that is the gist of it. You want to get out, I pave the way for you once it’s time. And on the way, I hope to beat some sense into you to make use of for once it’s time.”

Give him a reward and, hopefully, that will make him fall in line. At least that is Jaime’s plan now.

“And that… is all,” Ronnet says slowly, almost chewing on the words as though that would miraculously change the meaning of them.

“That is all, yes. Whatever else I want to do with you to achieve that, you will see once training comes, because it is my decision to make, and you will bear the consequences,” Jaime answers. “We get each other?”

“Perfectly, man,” Griffin Shit replies, leaning back in the chair.

“Sir,” Jaime corrects him.

“ _Sir_ ,” Ronnet repeats, or rather spits the word out as though it turned to acid on his tongue.

“Then be on your way,” Jaime says, waving at him dismissively. And the man doesn’t have to be asked twice, striding out as fast as he came in.

Jaime gets up from the table to resume his seat on his office chair, letting out a shaky breath as he sits down.

Now to the final act, the last performance of the day. Whether it is going to be the great finale has yet to reveal itself.

A soft knock on the door announces the beginning. Jaime puts on the new stash of papers as he calls out, “C’mon in.”

The wench walks in as stiffly as ever, her big blue eyes searching him almost instantly once she comes through the portal.

_That woman has probably been acting like that for every exam, every test, and every open school day she ever went through, getting all worked up though it was obvious that she was going to do well in most subjects._

“Good day, sir.”

“Good day to you, too, wench,” Jaime greets, flashing his typical smile as she rolls her eyes at him.

“Have a seat,” he adds, gesturing at the chair in front of him.

“Thank you,” she replies as she sits down, placing her big palms on either knee.

Jaime reckons that if he were to get out a protractor to measure, he would get perfect right angles for every time her body bends in the chair.

“So, big evaluation day today! Aren't you excited?” he begins, flashing his typical sort of smile that he knows never reaches his eyes.

“Well, judging by the others’ reactions… it’s nothing much to be excited about,” Brienne replies, tilting her head to the side slightly.

“Please tell me that I made at least one of them cry,” Jaime begs, laughing. “That would _so_ make my day.”

The wench shakes her head. “No tears, sorry.”

“ _Sucks_. I have to try harder, it seems,” he sighs, leaning back in his chair, twisting back and forth slightly.

“So… how do you want to bring _me_ to tears?” Brienne asks after a longer moment of silence, sounding insecure despite her efforts of hiding it.

_She really has to work on her acting._

“I am still rather indecisive. I know that there are so many options to fetch from to have you quivering with emotion,” he chimes, flashing her a lazy smirk.

She inevitably rolls her big blue eyes at him. “If you want to believe that.”

“Oh, I don't just want to believe that, I _know_ , wench. There is a difference in that,” Jaime argues, waving his pen in the air as though it was a wand. “But just because I have the power doesn’t mean I have to use it.”

Brienne frowns at him. “So you won’t?”

“Depends.” He shrugs.

“On what?”

“How you behave yourself of course,” he chuckles.

“Obviously,” she snorts, rolling her eyes.

“Well, normally, the procedure would now be that I poke questions at you, go through my research of what I have gathered about you that no one else is supposed to know,” Jaime tells her, nodding at the pile of papers before him on the table.

“So _that_ is what you did with the others? Well, that explains that,” she huffs.

“That is the procedure, yes.”

Brienne chews on her lower lip, tapping her fingers against the fabric of her pants.

 _She is nervous. Very nervous_ , Jaime thinks to himself with a small smirk. _And wench, you have to get so much better at hiding it all away._

“And what have you dug about me?” she asks.

“Hm, I have decided to move away from the procedure,” Jaime replies. “I will save that fun time up for alter. It makes more sense that way.”

It would be unwise to hand out all his trumps. They may come in handy, depending on how things develop, of how the performance goes now.

“How would it?” Brienne questions.

“Sometimes you have to let something rest for it to become objects of quality. Like wine gets better with age,” Jaime answers.

“Aha.”

“Also, I will greatly profit from keeping you in the suspense. That I know something about you that you thought was a secret,” he says, smirking at her wickedly.

“I shudder,” she snorts, doing so for emphasis once.

“You better should,” Jaime chuckles.

It hasn’t ceased to amaze him that the woman is actually capable of sarcasm every once in a while.

“Is that all?” Brienne asks, her lips curling into a frown.

Jaime puts his pen down on the table, turning his chair to squarely face the woman with blonde hair and brilliant blue eyes. “Yeah, no, actually, we have some serious decisions to make today.”

“Decisions,” she repeats, trying to make sense of what he is trying to tell her.

_And you will be surprised, wench, I am pretty sure. Let’s see how you far in an unexpected improv-performance._

“Yes, you get to make a life-changing choice today… well, maybe not _life_ -changing, but _work_ -changing. Life-changing just has the nicer ring to it.”

“And what choice is that?” she asks.

“You are aware that we are moving on to the next stage of training, yes?”

Brienne nods her head. “Yes.”

“Well, for you…,” he says, his fingers sliding over the tabletop. “I have two things in mind, and I cannot decide on which way to go, so the solution seemed rather straightforward to me – and that is that _you_ can choose from those two options.”

“I get to make a choice?” She blinks.

“That is what I just said, so yes,” Jaime huffs.

“I am just… _surprised_. I didn't think that this is… the way it’s usually handled,” Brienne replies hesitantly, cautiously.

“And it isn’t, but I was never a fan of standardized testing, evaluation, or punishment in the first place. That means I have my own methods, and I don’t apply them to each of my foolish pupils to the same measure. And with you… well, we both know you are a bit of a special case after all.”

Brienne just looks at him, irritated, as Jaime gets up from his chair and starts to walk through the room. Her bright eyes follow him at every step, he knows, even when he has his back to her.

“I have given it a lot of thought, have been making some _epic_ paper planes out of the research I had on you guys as I pondered…,” he laughs and she adds, “And what did the _epic_ paper planes reveal to you?”

“That with you…,” Jaime explains, stopping in his steps for a moment. “There are two ways to go about it. The other thing I realized thanks to the paper planes was that it’s actually not my decision to make as to what option we’ll run with in phase two.”

“And what are those options?” Brienne asks.

Jaime turns around to face her, not surprised to see her grimacing at him even more than before. He holds up his index finger in her direction. “Option one… I will call it the easy way… is a bit of a continuation of how things went until now. I will do my best to exorcise the demons from you that you don’t slip into the tunnel view again, even though you slightly improved on the matter. We can teach you more about bombs. Whatever shows up. By the time we move to the final stages, we would see to it that you are integrated into the team enough to ensure that you can lead parts of the squad on occasion. Stuff like that. It would be a logical continuation of what we had.”

The wench cranes her long neck. “And what is option two?”

Jaime laughs at that. “You know, quite a few would have taken that deal already. It’s so _effortless_.”

“I am not here for effortlessness,” Brienne argues. “And my Father always tells me not to buy a pig in a poke.”

“I always wondered who’d want to buy a pig in the poke in the first place, but anyway…,” he snorts. “I should have known that you are not one to jump on easy solutions so long there is the chance of something that means much more effort.”

That is one of the few constants Jaime found steady in a life taking as many turns as possible. You can always count on the wench’s stubbornness.

“And what does that option entail, then?” she questions.

Jaime walks towards her, but stops about three steps in front of Brienne. “I don’t know if you still recall one of our earlier conversations in the program, where you lamented about how I single you poor thing out all the while.”

He watches as she sits up impossibly straighter in her seat.

“I do recall,” Brienne answers.

“Do you also recall the explanation for that?” he asks.

“To push me. To become better.”

Jaime nods his head. “Yes. Because the top’s a lonely place.”

“… Right,” Brienne replies, averting her gaze slightly.

“Option two, which, _coincidentally_ , I coined ‘the hard way’ or ‘Highway to the Seven Hells,’ builds on that idea,” Jaime begins, flashing his crooked grin that always has something shift in the blonde woman’s face for some reason.

“What now?” Brienne asks, her frown deepening.

“You and I,” Jaime says, pointing his finger at her, then at himself. “We get working _really_ hard. And by that I mean working even after you already threw up your guts in regular training. Working overtime, whenever, wherever. And you will hate me for what I have in mind with you.”

Brienne scoffs, though likely only to hide her own surprise, “Well, that is hardly any news.”

He grins at her, because she does have a point. “I know that us two enjoy this hate-hate relationship quite a lot, but I am rather serious about this. You will hate it. You will hate me. You will curse me. You will want to call it off, more than once.”

“I am not one to give up easily,” the wench insists.

_And now, that is hardly any news either._

“I will break you, trust me in this,” Jaime warns her, because yes, it is a warning.

If the wench will follow through with what Jaime has in mind, she _will_ hate him more than she does by nature. However, Jaime never had any trouble plying the bad guy, so long it is to a good cause.

_And this is. It is for the good, it is for the better._

So what does it matter if that has high chances of doing the impossible of making the woman hate him impossibly more?

“Then why would I want to go for that option?” Brienne questions, to which Jaime chuckles softly, “That is a surprisingly valid question. The answer is rather straightforward, too, though: If you make it through that stage of hell, you will have what it takes to lead a team yourself.”

Brienne’s mouth falls open, her big blue eyes widening impossibly further. “W, what?”

It appears that the epic reveal, the plot twist, seems to have paid off at last.

“You heard me. If you choose this option, I will frame you so that you can act as my second-in-command or even as my replacement. Which means that we will have to train interrogation which you would not have to do as strongly if you were to go the easy way. I would teach you how to read people. Because a team leader, foremost, has to protect his stupid, foolish cubs. And they are… in need of _all_ guidance available. You have to do the thinking for them. If we have a bad guy at gunpoint and we need to know where he hid the bombs, and he isn’t spilling by just punching him in the nose a number of times, _you_ have to be able to tell with a good percentage whether he is bullshitting you or not. Because those decisions will determine… whether we survive or are blown into a million pieces,” Jaime explains.

“So… you are telling me that you think I could lead a team,” Brienne stutters, still totally perplex for all Jaime can judge, which is amusing on the one hand, but also a bit irritating, considering that he even told her that he sees her in a certain position against the odds that they hate each other’s guts.

“I say that I can frame you to lead a team, yes,” Jaime answers. “Why is that so utterly outrageous to you?”

“You _are_ aware that the guys don’t particularly like me. We had that conversation already. You said yourself that putting me on any sort of pedestal is not going to do me any favors,” Brienne points out to him.

“Which is why we are taking a bit of a detour, if you were to take that step, that is. I could now tell them that you are supposed to lead them. Then they are going to be bragging teenagers and probably try to pull down your pants to have you stumble over them and reveal to everyone the color of your panties,” Jaime tells her. “They are fuckboys like that. Most of them… all of them but to varying degrees? I think that’s better… yeah.”

“Are we getting to the point or do we keep debating about the level of how badly people want to make jokes at my costs?” she snorts.

“We could do that, but that would be foolish. _That_ is the point. So, the idea is that we… weave it in, slowly but surely. They won’t see it coming until you are in that position. It’s a gradual process of appropriation. They won’t see it coming until it is too late,” Jaime replies.

It’s a process, it’s an art, and Jaime used those brushes before.

“And you sincerely think that could work,” Brienne says, though she seemingly means it as a question, judging by the disbelief reflecting in her sapphire blue eyes.

Jaime tilts his head to the side. “Are you asking me whether I believe it or not that I can do my job?”

“I am asking if you think that there is a way that the guys will ever accept me in such a position, now the subtle approach or not,” Brienne explains.

“Again, you think I will not manage to make that happen. If I did not see any potential in you to make that happen, trust me, I wouldn’t do it. But you have what it takes to be in that position. If not, I would not offer you the option,” Jaime tells her bluntly. “So, the one question I am asking myself is simply _how_ we make that work. I know how to make team leaders. I have made them before, I have formed them. And despite the fact that you are a stubborn wench, I think I can twist you enough out of your steel-like shape into what it takes to fill in that spot.”

Brienne licks her lips. “So… just to make sure that I understood this correctly: You honestly think that from _my_ skillset… being a team leader of some kind is the most logical conclusion?”

“Wench, just why is that baffling you so much right now?” Jaime asks, though he knows, he can see it in the way she acts.

The woman just cannot even begin to fathom that someone sees potential in her despite being a massive dick to her otherwise.

“I am not the… type,” Brienne says, gesturing with her wrist.

Jaime snorts. “For _that_ , you like bossing me around even though I am your superior.”

“But I am not a leader type of person. I thought Robb…,” she means to say, but Jaime cuts her off before she can dwell on her _annoying_ habit of self-doubt, “Wench, if you don’t want that option, then don’t take it. If I did not believe that my assessment of the situation is accurate, I would not make this proposal. Don’t take me for a fool. I don’t do this because of that one time you helped me out after I got myself… drunk stupid… I am not doing this to pay back or because I want to piss up Ned Stark’s tree yet again. I have composed teams for as long as I was given the chance. I know how this is done. I know how to play that special game of chess.”

_And I know how to keep winning, even if that makes me, ultimately, just another poor loser who just can’t seem to stop playing when really, he should._

He leans against the table, folding his arms over his chest. “You are right. Robb Stark? Leader type. Without a doubt. But where is the challenge in teaching him something he’s already good at? I have other things I can teach him. And you tell me, who would have considered teaching _you_ what I just proposed? I want to teach you something new. _That_ is how I bring you forward, which is… the idea of training, you know? Look it up in the dictionary in case you forgot.”

“I just never had someone… offer something like that to me,” Brienne replies, bowing her head slightly.

“It’s always a pleasure to hear that I somehow managed to surprise you, wench,” he snorts. “But fret not, this is not only about yourself. Or else you’d probably be scared. To think that there is something that relates to you and not to duty alone. No, this is also about the team. Frankly speaking… I have to think about the future now that I started giving a damn on… this here.”

He gestures around the room.

And Jaime is likely still most surprised that he gives a damn. He didn’t in such a long time. And yet, here he is, thinking about what may be not at all too distant futures.

“But… the percentages are fifty-fifty, I’d say, as to whether I will keep the team. It might be that I lose interest in you all in the end anyway. It might be that Robert just snatches you once you turn out to be not completely horrible…,” Jaime goes on, then stops for a moment, shaking his head.

He can see Brienne looking at him with a strange sort of mixture of what he’d tend to identify as surprise, discomfort, and a bit of… _yes, empathy_.

_And isn’t that just pitiful?_

“No matter what happens, though, it may well be that you guys will lose your precious mentor. And once you do, there are two options available to you. You either get a new boss who is… not nearly as good-looking and charming as me…,” he says, flashing a smirk that Brienne does not return in the least, seemingly aware that it is a lie. “Or you elect one of your own as the new team captain. And trust me in this, the last option is definitely better. How we can have that play out in the end… that is entirely up to you guys, but I want to do some future planning so that you have _some_ kind of choice, no matter what.”

Jaime is not surprised by the shock on her face. The wench is likely still caught up in the idea that Jaime gives a damn in all earnest, and the Seven may forbid, plans into a future for this shit of a team.

But stranger things have happened, Jaime knows. And they seemingly will keep happening.

Because the carousel keeps turning, ready or not.

“I think that having you fill in that spot can do us all favors,” Jaime continues. “It won’t be without trouble, there will be tears, there will be suffering, a lot of it, but the end result… I think I can see it. So, the question remains. Which will she choose?”

Brienne looks at him for a long moment, and Jaime can almost see the wheels turning inside her head, about as fast as the carousel he now calls his life keeps spinning endlessly.

“Easy way or hard way,” she says.

“Heaven or Hell. No middle ground. Either you take it or you leave it, Tarth. Both options work about just fine. The question is just where your future plans are heading,” Jaime replies.

Brienne blinks, chews on her lower lip, her left knee bobbing up and down slightly. “Well, I suppose it’s as you say… If I have the choice, I will still go the hard way even though I could have it easier. Which is likely very foolish, but…”

“Oh, it definitely is.,” Jaime laughs. “I wouldn’t ever advise someone to take the Highway to Hell. But then again, you are not like most people.”

_It’s a very lonely place._

“So… when do we get started?” Brienne asks, running her hands over the upper side of her thighs a number of times.

“I will let you know,” Jaime chuckles, flashing her a wicked little smirk.

Brienne frowns. “No fixed schedule?”

“Nothing much is fixed about this, no. Something that I bet you are going to hate even more so than the hells I will send you through once we get started,” Jaime replies. “But it’s as I said, it’s about teaching you new things. And getting used to the unpredictable is at the top of my priority list.”

“Is that… is that all?” she asks.

Jaime nods his head. “That is all.”

Brienne stands up slowly. The commander can see the uncertainty in her big blue eyes, waiting for him to call it a joke, a jest.

And while he has no intention to, Jaime knows that even telling her that he spoke nothing but the truth wouldn’t erase the doubt from the wench’s facial expression. She will only realize that he is very serious about the matter once they start training. Because for that, and he meant that, too, she will likely hate him even more than she does by nature.

But that just seems to be part of the ride, part of the game.

Brienne heads towards the door, but then stops. “Sir?”

“Yes, wench?”

She doesn’t look at him as she almost whispers, “Thank you for… the trust.”

Jaime’s lips curl into a small smile. “Well, let’s see where that trust gets us in the future. Because, let’s be real, the trust of the Kingslayer? What is that worth?”

Brienne taps the flat of her hand against the door frame, her mouth opening and closing soundlessly a few times before she flashes the faintest of smiles at him. “Thank you.”

And with that, she disappears down the hallway, the door falling shut behind her.

Jaime lets out a sigh as he gets up from the table and walks around the small office.

That was the final curtain – for this play, at least.

And Jaime must say, there is something strangely liberating about the last act.

Because for a small fraction… he was simply being honest.

So, perhaps, even the King of Liars, every once in a while, find comfort in a bit of truth once upon a time, even as the carousel keeps turning.

Round and round again.


End file.
